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J 


THE  TRIMMED  LAMP 


'Wooed  her  across  the  counter  with  a  king  cophetua  air.' 


Copyright,  1907,  by  McClure,  Phillips  %  Co. 


Copyright,  1906,  by  The  S.  S.  McClure  Co. 


URL         Or j 


35^7^5/ 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

The  Trimmed  Lamp 3 

A  Madison  Square  Arabian  Night      ....  22 

The  Rubaiyat  of  a  Scotch   Highball    ...  32 

The  Pendulum 42 

Two  Thanksgiving  Day  Gentlemen   ....  50 

The  Assessor  of  Success 59 

The  Buyer  from  Cactus  City 70 

The    Badge    of    Policeman   O'Roon    ....  81 

Brickdust    Row 89 

The  Making  of  a  New  Yorker 102 

Vanity  and  Some  Sables Ill 

The  Social  Triangle 121 

The    Purple    Dress 130 

The  Foreign  Policy  of  Company  99  .      .      .      .139 

The  Lost  Blend •      •      •      .150 

A  Harlem  Tragedy I59 

"The  Guilty  Party" — An  East  Side  Tragedy   .  169 

According  to   Their  Lights 179 

A  Midsummer   Knight's   Dream 189 

The    Last   Leaf 198 

The  Count  and  the  Wedding  Guest  ....  209 

The  Country  of  Elusion 219 

The  Ferry  of  Unfulfilment 233 

The  Tale  of  a  Tainted  Tenner 240 

Elsie  in  New  York •      •  249 


THE  TRIMMED  LAMP 


THE  TRIMMED  LAMP 

OF  course  there  are  two  sides  to  the  question.  Let 
us  look  at  the  other.  We  often  hear  "  shop-girls  " 
spoken  of.  No  such  persons  exist.  There  are  girls 
who  work  in  shops.  They  make  their  living  that  way. 
But  why  turn  their  occupation  into  an  adjective? 
Let  us  be  fair.  We  do  not  refer  to  the  girls  who  live 
on  Fifth  Avenue  as  "  marriage-girls." 

Lou  and  Nancy  were  chums.  They  came  to  the  big 
city  to  find  work  because  there  was  not  enough  to  eat 
at  their  homes  to  go  around.  Nancy  was  nineteen; 
Lou  was  twenty.  Both  were  pretty,  active,  country 
girls  who  had  no  ambition  to  go  on  the  stage. 

The  little  cherub  that  sits  up  aloft  guided  them  to 
a  cheap  and  respectable  boarding-house.  Both  found 
positions  and  became  wage-earners.  They  remained 
chums.  It  is  at  the  end  of  six  months  that  I  would 
beg  you  to  step  forward  and  be  introduced  to  them. 
Meddlesome  Reader:  My  Lady  friends,  Miss  Nancy 
and  Miss  Lou.  While  you  are  shaking  hands  please 
take  notice  —  cautiously  —  of  their  attire.  Yes, 
cautiously ;  for  they  are  as  quick  to  resent  a  stare  as 
a  lady  in  a  box  at  the  horse  show  is. 

Lou  is  a  piece-work  ironer  in  a  hand  laundry.     She 


4  The  Trimmed  Lamp 

is  clothed  in  a  badly-fitting  purple  dress,  and  her  hat 
plume  is  four  inches  too  long;  but  her  ermine  muff 
and  scarf  cost  $25,  and  its  fellow  beasts  will  be  ticketed 
in  the  windows  at  $7.98  before  the  season  is  over. 
Her  cheeks  are  pink,  and  her  light  blue  eyes  bright. 
Contentment  radiates  from  her. 

Nancy  you  would  call  a  shop-girl  —  because  you 
have  the  habit.  There  is  no  type ;  but  a  perverse  gen- 
eration is  always  seeking  a  type ;  so  this  is  what  the 
type  should  be.  She  has  the  high-ratted  pompadour, 
and  the  exaggerated  straight-front.  Her  skirt  is 
shoddy,  but  has  the  correct  flare.  No  furs  protect 
her  against  the  bitter  spring  air,  but  she  wears  her 
short  broadcloth  jacket  as  jauntily  as  though  it  were 
Persian  lamb !  On  her  face  and  in  her  eyes,  remorse- 
less type-seeker,  is  the  typical  shop-girl  expression. 
It  is  a  look  of  silent  but  contemptuous  revolt  against 
cheated  womanhood;  of  sad  prophecy  of  the  ven- 
geance to  come.  When  she  laughs  her  loudest  the 
look  is  still  there.  The  same  look  can  be  seen  in  the 
eyes  of  Russian  peasants  ;  and  those  of  us  left  will  see 
it  some  day  on  Gabriel's  face  when  he  comes  to  blow 
us  up.  It  is  a  look  that  should  wither  and  abash  man ; 
but  he  has  been  known  to  smirk  at  it  and  offer  flowers 
—  with  a  string  tied  to  them. 

Now  lift  your  hat  and  come  away,  while  you  re- 
ceive Lou's  cheery  "  See  you  again,"  and  the  sardonic, 
sweet  smile  of  Nancy  that  seems,  somehow,  to  miss  you 


The  Trimmed  Lamp  5 

arid  go  fluttering  like  a  white  moth  up  over  the  house- 
tops to  the  stars. 

The  two  waited  on  the  corner  for  Dan.  Dan  was 
Lou's  steady  company.  Faithful?  Well,  he  was  on 
hand  when  Mary  would  have  had  to  hire  a  dozen  sub- 
poena servers  to  find  her  lamb. 

"  Ain't  you  cold,  Nance?  "  said  Lou.  "  Say,  what 
a  chump  you  are  for  working  in  that  old  store  for  $8. 
a  week !  I  made  $18.50  last  week.  Of  course  ironing 
ain't  as  swell  work  as  selling  lace  behind  a  counter,  but 
it  pays.  None  of  us  ironers  make  less  than  $10. 
And  I  don't  know  that  it's  any  less  respectful  work, 
either." 

"  You  can  have  it,"  said  Nancy,  with  uplifted  nose. 
"  I'll  take  my  eight  a  week  and  hall  bedroom.  I  like 
to  be  among  nice  things  and  swell  people.  And  look 
what  a  chance  I've  got !  Why,  one  of  our  glove  girls 
married  a  Pittsburg  —  steel  maker,  or  blacksmith  or 
something  —  the  other  day  worth  a  million  dollars. 
I'll  catch  a  swell  myself  some  time.  I  ain't  bragging 
on  my  looks  or  anything;  but  I'll  take  my  chances 
where  there's  big  prizes  offered.  What  show  would 
a  girl  have  in  a  laundry  ?  " 

"  Why,  that's  where  I  met  Dan,"  said  Lou,  tri- 
umphantly. "  He  came  in  for  his  Sunday  shirt  and 
collars  and  saw  me  at  the  first  board,  ironing.  We 
all  try  to  get  to  work  at  the  first  board.  Ella  Magin- 
nis  was  sick  that  day,  and  I  had  her  place.     He  said 


6  The  Trimmed  Lamp 

he  noticed  my  arms  first,  how  round  and  white  they 
was.  I  had  my  sleeves  rolled  up.  Some  nice  fellows 
come  into  laundries.  You  can  tell  'em  by  their  bring- 
ing their  clothes  in  suit  cases,  and  turning  in  the  door 
sharp  and  sudden." 

"  How  can  you  wear  a  waist  like  that,  Lou?  "  said 
Nancy,  gazing  down  at  the  offending  article  with 
sweet  scorn  in  her  heavy-lidded  eyes.  '*  It  shows  fierce 
taste." 

"  This  waist?  "  cried  Lou,  with  wide-eyed  indigna- 
tion. "  Why,  I  paid  $16.  for  this  waist.  It's  worth 
twenty-five.  A  woman  left  it  to  be  laundered,  and 
never  called  for  it.  The  boss  sold  it  to  me.  It's 
got  yards  and  yards  of  hand  embroidery  on  it. 
Better  talk  about  that  ugly,  plain  thing  you've 
got  on." 

"  This  ugly,  plain  thing,"  said  Nancy,  calmly, 
"  was  copied  from  one  that  Mrs.  Van  Alstyne  Fisher 
was  wearing.  The  girls  say  her  bill  in  the  store  last 
year  was  $12,000.  I  made  mine,  myself.  It  cost 
me  $1.50.  Ten  feet  away  you  couldn't  tell  it  from 
hers." 

"  Oh,  well,"  said  Lou,  good-naturedly,  "  if  you 
want  to  starve  and  put  on  airs,  go  ahead.  But  I'll 
take  my  job  and  good  wages;  and  after  hours  give 
me  something  as  fancy  and  attractive  to  wear  as  I  am 
able  to  buy." 

But  just  then  Dan  came  —  a  serious  young  man 


The  Trimmed  Lamp  7 

with  a  ready-made  necktie,  who  had  escaped  the  city's 
brand  of  frivolity  —  an  electrician  earning  $30.  per 
week  who  looked  upon  Lou  with  the  sad  eyes  of 
Romeo,  and  thought  her  embroidered  waist  a  web  in 
which  any  fly  should  delight  to  be  caught. 

"  My  friend,  Mr.  Owens  —  shake  hands  with  Miss 
Danforth,"  said  Lou. 

"  I'm  mighty  glad  to  know  you,  Miss  Danforth," 
said  Dan,  with  outstretched  hand.  "  I've  heard  Lou 
speak  of  you  so  often." 

"  Thanks,"  said  Nancy,  touching  his  fingers  with 
the  tips  of  her  cool  ones,  "  I've  heard  her  mention  you 
—  a  few  times." 

Lou  giggled. 

"  Did  you  get  that  handshake  from  Mrs.  Van  Als- 
tyne  Fisher,  Nance?  "  she  asked. 

"  If  I  did,  you  can  feel  safe  in  copying  it,"  said 
Nancy. 

"  Oh,  I  couldn't  use  it  at  all.  It's  too  stylish  for 
me.  It's  intended  to  set  off  diamond  rings,  that  high 
shake  is.     Wait  till  I  get  a  few  and  then  I'll  try  it." 

"  Learn  it  first,"  said  Nancy  wisely,  "  and  you'll  be 
more  likely  to  get  the  rings." 

"  Now,  to  settle  this  argument,"  said  Dan,  with  his 
ready,  cheerful  smile,  "  let  me  make  a  proposition. 
As  I  can't  take  both  of  you  up  to  Tiffany's  and  do  the 
right  thing,  what  do  you  say  to  a  little  vaudeville? 
I've  got  the  -tickets.     How  about  looking  at  stage  dia- 


8  The  Trimmed  Lamp 

monds  since  we  can't  shake  hands  with  the  real  spark- 
lers? " 

The  faithful  squire  took  his  place  close  to  the  curb ; 
Lou  next,  a  little  peacocky  in  her  bright  and  pretty 
clothes ;  Nancy  on  the  inside,  slender,  and  soberly 
clothed  as  the  sparrow,  but  with  the  true  Van  Alstyne 
Fisher  walk  —  thus  they  set  out  for  their  evening's 
moderate  diversion. 

I  do  not  suppose  that  many  look  upon  a  great  de- 
partment store  as  an  educational  institution.  But  the 
one  in  which  Nancy  worked  was  something  like  that  to 
her.  She  was  surrounded  by  beautiful  things  that 
breathed  of  taste  and  refinement.  If  you  live  in  an 
atmosphere  of  luxury,  luxury  is  yours  whether  your 
money  pays  for  it,  or  another's. 

The  people  she  served  were  mostly  women  whose 
dress,  manners,  and  position  in  the  social  world  were 
quoted  as  criterions.  From  them  Nancy  began  to 
take  toll  —  the  best  from  each  according  to  her  view. 

From  one  she  would  copy  and  practice  a  gesture, 
from  another  an  eloquent  lifting  of  an  eyebrow,  from 
others,  a  manner  of  walking,  of  carrying  a  purse,  of 
smiling,  of  greeting  a  friend,  of  addressing  "  inferiors 
in  station."  From  her  best  beloved  model,  Mrs.  Van 
Alstyne  Fisher,  she  made  requisition  for  that  excellent 
thing,  a  soft,  low  voice  as  clear  as  silver  and  as  per- 
fect in  articulation  as  the  notes  of  a  thrush.  Suffused 
in  the  aura  of  this  high  social  refinement  and  good 


The  Trimmed  Lamp  9 

breeding,  it  was  impossible  for  her  to  escape  a  deeper 
effect  of  it.  As  good  habits  are  said  to  be  better  than 
good  principles,  so,  perhaps,  good  manners  are  better 
than  good  habits.  The  teachings  of  your  parents 
may  not  keep  alive  your  New  England  conscience ;  but 
if  you  sit  on  a  straight-back  chair  and  repeat  the 
words  "  prisms  and  pilgrims  "  forty  times  the  devil 
will  flee  from  you.  And  when  Nancy  spoke  in  the  Van 
Alstyne  Fisher  tones  she  felt  the  thrill  of  noblesse 
oblige  to  her  very  bones. 

There  was  another  source  of  learning  in  the  great 
departmental  school.  Whenever  you  see  three  or  four 
shop-girls  gather  in  a  bunch  and  jingle  their  wire 
bracelets  as  an  accompaniment  to  apparently  frivolous 
conversation,  do  not  think  that  they  are  there  for  the 
purpose  of  criticizing  the  way  Ethel  does  her  back 
hair.  The  meeting  may  lack  the  dignity  of  the  delib- 
erative bodies  of  man;  but  it  has  all  the  importance 
of  the  occasion  on  which  Eve  and  her  first  daughter 
first  put  their  heads  together  to  make  Adam  under- 
stand his  proper  place  in  the  household.  It  is  Wom- 
an's Conference  for  Common  Defense  and  Exchange 
of  Strategical  Theories  of  Attack  and  Repulse  upon 
and  against  the  World,  which  is  a  Stage,  and  Man, 
its  Audience  who  Persists  in  Throwing  Bouquets 
Thereupon.  Woman,  the  most  helpless  of  the  young 
of  any  animal  —  with  the  fawn's  grace  but  without  its 
fleetness ;  with  the  bird's  beauty  but  without  its  power 


10  The  Trimmed  Lamp 

of  flight ;  with  the  honey-bee's  burden  of  sweetness  but 
without  its  —  Oh,  let's  drop  that  simile  —  some  of  us 
may  have  been  stung. 

During  this  council  of  war  they  pass  weapons  one 
to  another,  and  exchange  stratagems  that  each  has 
devised  and  formulated  out  of  the  tactics  of  life. 

"  I  says  to  'im,"  says  Sadie,  "  ain't  you  the  fresh 
thing !  Who  do  you  suppose  I  am,  to  be  addressing 
such  a  remark  to  me  ?  And  what  do  you  think  he  says 
back  to  me  ?  " 

The  heads,  brown,  black,  flaxen,  red,  and  yellow 
bob  together ;  the  answer  is  given ;  and  the  parry  to 
the  thrust  is  decided  upon,  to  be  used  by  each  there- 
after in  passages-at-arms  with  the  common  enemy, 
man. 

Thus  Nancy  learned  the  art  of  defense;  and  to 
women  successful  defense  means  victory. 

The  curriculum  of  a  department  store  is  a  wide  one. 
Perhaps  no  other  college  could  have  fitted  her  as  well 
for  her  life's  ambition  —  the  drawing  of  a  matrimo- 
nial prize. 

Her  station  in  the  store  was  a  favored  one.  The 
music  room  was  near  enough  for  her  to  hear  and  be- 
come familiar  with  the  works  of  the  best  composers  — 
at  least  to  acquire  the  familiarity  that  passed  for  ap- 
preciation in  the  social  world  in  which  she  was  vaguely 
trying  to  set  a  tentative  and  aspiring  foot.  She  ab- 
sorbed the  educating  influence  of  art  wares,  of  costly 


The  Trimmed  Lamp  11 

and  dainty  fabrics,  of  adornments  that  are  almost  cul- 
ture to  women. 

The  other  girls  soon  became  aware  of  Nancy's  am- 
bition. "  Here  comes  your  millionaire,  Nancy,"  they 
would  call  to  her  whenever  any  man  who  looked  the 
role  approached  her  counter.  It  got  to  be  a  habit  of 
men,  who  were  hanging  about  while  their  women  folk 
were  shopping,  to  stroll  over  to  the  handkerchief  coun- 
ter and  dawdle  over  the  cambric  squares.  Nancy's 
imitation  high-bred  air  and  genuine  dainty  beauty 
was  what  attracted.  Many  men  thus  came  to  display 
their  graces  before  her.  Some  of  them  may  have  been 
millionaires ;  others  were  certainly  no  more  than  their 
sedulous  apes.  Nancy  learned  to  discriminate. 
There  was  a  window  at  the  end  of  the  handkerchief 
counter ;  and  she  could  see  the  rows  of  vehicles  wait- 
ing for  the  shoppers  in  the  street  below.  She  looked, 
and  perceived  that  automobiles  differ  as  well  as  do 
their  owners. 

Once  a  fascinating  gentleman  bought  four  dozen 
handkerchiefs,  and  wooed  her  across  the  counter  with 
a  King  Cophetua  air.  When  he  had  gone  one  of  the 
girls  said: 

"  What's  wrong,  Nance,  that  you  didn't  warm  up 
to  that  fellow?  Tie  looks  the  swell  article,  all  right, 
to  me." 

"Him?"  said  Nancy,  with  her  coolest,  sweetest, 
most  impersonal,  Van  Alstyne  Fisher  smile ;  "  not  for 


12  The  Trimmed  Lamp 

mine.  I  saw  him  drive  up  outside.  A  12  H.  P.  ma- 
chine and  an  Irish  chauffeur!  And  you  saw  what 
kind  of  handkerchiefs  he  bought  —  silk !  And  he's 
got  dactylis  on  him.  Give  me  the  real  thing  or  noth- 
ing, if  you  please." 

Two  of  the  most  "  refined  "  women  in  the  store  — 
a  forelady  and  a  cashier  —  had  a  few  "  swell  gentle- 
men friends  "  with  whom  they  now  and  then  dined. 
Once  they  included  Nancy  in  an  invitation.  The  din- 
ner took  place  in  a  spectacular  cafe  whose  tables  are 
engaged  for  New  Year's  eve  a  year  in  advance. 
There  were  two  "  gentlemen  friends  " —  one  without 
any  hair  on  his  head  —  high  living  ungrew  it ;  and 
we  can  prove  it  —  the  other  a  young  man  whose 
worth  and  sophistication  he  impressed  upon  you  in 
two  convincing  ways  —  he  swore  that  all  the  wine 
was  corked ;  and  he  wore  diamond  cuff  buttons.  This 
young  man  perceived  irresistible  excellencies  in  Nancy. 
His  taste  ran  to  shop-girls ;  and  here  was  one  that 
added  the  voice  and  manners  of  his  high  social  world 
to  the  franker  charms  of  her  own  caste.  So,  on  the 
following  day,  he  appeared  in  the  store  and  made  her 
a  serious  proposal  of  marriage  over  a  box  of  hem- 
stitched, grass-bleached  Irish  linens.  Nancy  de- 
clined. A  brown  pompadour  ten  feet  away  had  been 
using  her  eyes  and  ears.  When  the  rejected  suitor 
had  gone  she  heaped  carboys  of  upbraidings  and 
horror  upon  Nancy's  head. 


The  Trimmed  Lamp  13 

"  What  a  terrible  little  fool  you  are !  That  fellow's 
a  millionaire  —  he's  a  nephew  of  old  Van  Skittles  him- 
self. And  he  was  talking  on  the  level,  too.  Have 
you  gone  crazy,  Nance?  " 

"  Have  I?  "  said  Nancy.  "  I  didn't  take  him,  did 
I?  He  isn't  a  millionaire  so  hard  that  you  could  no- 
tice it,  anyhow.  His  family  only  allows  him  $20,000 
a  year  to  spend.  The  bald-headed  fellow  was  guying 
him  about  it  the  other  night  at  supper." 

The  brown  pompadour  came  nearer  and  narrowed 
her  eyes. 

"  Say,  what  do  you  want?  "  she  inquired,  in  a  voice 
hoarse  for  lack  of  chewing-gum.  "  Ain't  that  enough 
for  you?  Do  you  want  to  be  a  Mormon,  and  marry 
Rockefeller  and  Gladstone  Dowie  and  the  King  of 
Spain  and  the  whole  bunch?  Ain't  $20,000  a  year 
good  enough  for  you?  " 

Nancy  flushed  a  little  under  the  level  gaze  of  the 
black,  shallow  eyes. 

"  It  wasn't  altogether  the  money,  Carrie,"  she  ex- 
plained. "  His  friend  caught  him  in  a  rank  lie  the 
other  night  at  dinner.  It  was  about  some  girl  he  said 
he  hadn't  been  to  the  theater  with.  Well,  I  can't  stand 
a  liar.  Put  everything  together  —  I  don't  like  him ; 
and  that  settles  it.  When  I  sell  out  it's  not  going  to 
be  on  any  bargain  day.  I've  got  to  have  something 
that  sits  up  in  a  chair  like  a  man,  anyhow.  Yes,  I'm 
looking  out  for  a  catch ;  but  it's  got  to  be  able  to  do 


14  The  Trimmed  Lamp 

something  more  than  make  a  noise  like  a  toy  bank." 

"  The  physiopathic  ward  for  yours ! "  said  the 
brown  pompadour,  walking  away. 

These  high  ideas,  if  not  ideals  —  Nancy  continued 
to  cultivate  on  $8.  per  week.  She  bivouacked  on  the 
trail  of  the  great  unknown  "  catch,"  eating  her  dry 
bread  and  tightening  her  belt  day  by  day.  On  her 
face  was  the  faint,  soldierly,  sweet,  grim  smile  of  the 
preordained  man-hunter.  The  store  Avas  her  forest; 
and  many  times  she  raised  her  rifle  at  game  that 
seemed  broad-antlered  and  big;  but  always  some  deep 
unerring  instinct  —  perhaps  of  the  huntress,  perhaps 
of  the  woman  —  made  her  hold  her  fire  and  take  up 
the  trail  again. 

Lou  flourished  in  the  laundry.  Out  of  her  $18.50 
per  week  she  paid  $6.  for  her  room  and  board.  The 
rest  went  mainly  for  clothes.  Her  opportunities  for 
bettering  her  taste  and  manners  were  few  compared 
with  Nancy's.  In  the  steaming  laundry  there  was 
nothing  but  work,  work  and  her  thoughts  of  the  even- 
ing pleasures  to  come.  Many  costly  and  showy 
fabrics  passed  under  her  iron ;  and  it  may  be  that  her 
growing  fondness  for  dress  was  thus  transmitted  to 
her  through  the  conducting  metal. 

When  the  day's  work  was  over  Dan  awaited  her 
outside,  her  faithful  shadow  in  whatever  light  she 
stood. 

Sometimes  he  cast  an  honest  and  troubled  glance 


The  Trimmed  Lamp  15 

at  Lou's  clothes  that  increased  in  conspicuity  rather 
than  in  style ;  but  this  was  no  disloyalty ;  he  deprecated 
the  attention  they  called  to  her  in  the  streets. 

And  Lou  was  no  less  faithful  to  her  chum.  There 
was  a  law  that  Nancy  should  go  with  them  on  what- 
soever outings  they  might  take.  Dan  bore  the  extra 
burden  heartily  and  in  good  cheer.  It  might  be  said 
that  Lou  furnished  the  color,  Nancy  the  tone,  and  Dan 
the  weight  of  the  distraction-seeking  trio.  The  escort, 
in  his  neat  but  obviously  ready-made  suit,  his  ready- 
made  tie  and  unfailing,  genial,  ready-made  wit  never 
startled  or  clashed.  He  was  of  that  good  kind  that 
you  are  likely  to  forget  while  they  are  present,  but 
remember  distinctly  after  they  are  gone. 

To  Nancy's  superior  taste  the  flavor  of  these  ready- 
made  pleasures  was  sometimes  a  little  bitter :  but  she 
was  young ;  and  youth  is  a  gourmand,  when  it  cannot 
be  a  gourmet. 

"  Dan  is  always  wanting  me  to  marry  him  right 
away,"  Lou  told  her  once.  "  But  why  should  I.  I'm 
independent.  I  can  do  as  I  please  with  the  money  I 
earn ;  and  he  never  would  agree  for  me  to  keep  on 
working  afterward.  And  say,  Nance,  what  do  you 
want  to  stick  to  that  old  store  for,  and  half  starve  and 
half  dress  yourseif  ?  I  could  get  you  a  place  in  the 
laundry  right  now  if  you'd  come.  It  seems  to  me 
that  you  could  afford  to  be  a  little  less  stuck-up  if 
you  could  make  a  good  deal  more  money.' 


5J 


16  The  Trimmed  Lamp 

"  I  don't  think  I'm  stuck-up,  Lou,"  said  Nancy, 
"  but  I'd  rather  live  on  half  rations  and  stay  where  I 
am.  I  suppose  I've  got  the  habit.  It's  the  chance 
that  I  want.  I  don't  expect  to  be  always  behind  a 
counter.  I'm  learning  something  new  every  day. 
I'm  right  up  against  refined  and  rich  people  all  the 
time  —  even  if  I  do  only  wait  on  them ;  and  I'm  not 
missing  any  pointers  that  I  see  passing  around." 

"Caught  your  millionaire  yet?"  asked  Lou  with 
her  teasing  laugh. 

"  I  haven't  selected  one  yet,"  answered  Nancy. 
"  I've  been  looking  them  over." 

"  Goodness  I  the  idea  of  picking  over  'em !  Don't 
you  ever  let  one  get  by  you  Nance  —  even  if  he's  a 
few  dollars  shy.  But  of  course  you're  joking  — 
millionaires  don't  think  about  working  girls  like  us." 

"  It  might  be  better  for  them  if  they  did,"  said 
Nancy,  with  cool  wisdom.  "  Some  of  us  could  teach 
them  how  to  take  care  of  their  money." 

"  If  one  was  to  speak  to  me,"  laughed  Lou,  "  I 
know  I'd  have  a  duck-fit." 

"  That's  because  you  don't  know  any.  The  only 
difference  between  swells  and  other  people  is  you  have 
to  watch  'em  closer.  Don't  you  think  that  red  silk 
lining  is  just  a  little  bit  too  bright  for  that  coat, 
Lou?" 

Lou  looked  at  the  plain,  dull  olive  jacket  of  her 
friend. 


The  Trimmed  Lamp  17 

"  Well,  no  I  don't  —  but  it  may  seem  so  beside  that 
faded-looking  thing  you've  got  on." 

"  This  jacket,"  said  Nancy,  complacently,  "  has 
exactly  the  cut  and  fit  of  one  that  Mrs.  Van  Alstyne 
Fisher  was  wearing  the  other  day.  The  material  cost 
me  $3.98.     I  suppose  hers  cost  about  $100.  more." 

"  Oh,  well,"  said  Lou  lightly,  "  it  don't  strike  me 
as  millionaire  bait.  Shouldn't  wonder  if  I  catch  one 
before  you  do,  anyway." 

Truly  it  would  have  taken  a  philosopher  to  decide 
upon  the  values  of  the  theories  held  by  the  two  friends. 
Lou,  lacking'  that  certain  pride  and  fastidiousness  that 
keeps  stores  and  desks  filled  with  girls  working  for  the 
barest  living,  thumped  away  gaily  with  her  iron  in 
the  noisy  and  stifling  laundry.  Her  wages  supported 
her  even  beyond  the  point  of  comfort ;  so  that  her  dress 
profited  until  sometimes  she  cast  a  sidelong  glance  of 
impatience  at  the  neat  but  inelegant  apparel  of  Dan 
—  Dan  the  constant,  the  immutable,  the  undeviating. 

As  for  Nancy,  her  case  was  one  of  tens  of  thou- 
sands. Silk  and  jewels  and  laces  and  ornaments  and 
the  perfume  and  music  of  the  fine  world  of  good-breed- 
ing and  taste  —  these  were  made  for  woman ;  they  are 
her  equitable  portion.  Let  her  keep  near  them  if  they 
are  a  part  of  life  to  her,  and  if  she  will.  She  is  no 
traitor  to  herself,  as  Esau  was;  for  she  keeps  her 
birthright  and  the  pottage  she  earns  is  often  very 
scant. 


18  The  Trimmed  Lamp 

In  this  atmosphere  Nancy  belonged ;  and  she  throve 
in  it  and  ate  her  frugal  meals  and  schemed  over  her 
cheap  dresses  with  a  determined  and  contented  mind. 
She  already  knew  woman ;  and  she  was  studying  man, 
the  animal,  both  as  to  his  habits  and  eligibility.  Some 
day  she  would  bring  down  the  game  that  she  wanted ; 
but  she  promised  herself  it  would  be  what  seemed  to 
her  the  biggest  and  the  best,  and  nothing  smaller. 

Thus  she  kept  her  lamp  trimmed  and  burning  to 
receive  the  bridegroom  when  he  should  come. 

But,  another  lesson  she  learned,  perhaps  uncon- 
sciously. Her  standard  of  values  began  to  shift  and 
change.  Sometimes  the  dollar-mark  grew  blurred  in 
her  mind's  eye,  and  shaped  itself  into  letters  that 
spelled  such  words  as  "  truth  "  and  "  honor  "  and  now 
and  then  just  "  kindness."  Let  us  make  a  likeness  of 
one  who  hunts  the  moose  or  elk  in  some  mighty  wood. 
He  sees  a  little  dell,  mossy  and  embowered,  where  a  rill 
trickles,  babbling  to  him  of  rest  and  comfort.  At 
these  times  the  spear  of  Nimrod  himself  grows  blunt. 

So,  Nancy  wondered  sometimes  if  Persian  lamb  was 
always  quoted  at  its  market  value  by  the  hearts  that 
it  covered. 

One  Thursday  evening  Nancy  left  the  store  and 
turned  across  Sixth  Avenue  westward  to  the  laundry. 
She  was  expected  to  go  with  Lou  and  Dan  to  a 
musical  comedy. 

Dan  was  just  coming  out  of  the  laundry  when  she 


The  Trimmed  Lamp  19 

arrived.     There  was  a  queer,  strained  look  on  his  face. 

"  I  thought  I  would  drop  around  to  see  if  they  had 
heard  from  her,"  he  said. 

"  Heard  from  who  ?  "  asked  Nancy.  "  Isn't  Lou 
there  ?  " 

"  I  thought  you  knew,"  said  Dan.  "  She  hasn't 
been  here  or  at  the  house  where  she  lived  since  Mon- 
day. She  moved  all  her  things  from  there.  She  told 
one  of  the  girls  in  the  laundry  she  might  be  going  to 
Europe." 

"Hasn't  anybody  seen  her  anywhere? ':  asked 
Nancy. 

Dan  looked  at  her  with  his  jaws  set  grimly,  and  a 
steely  gleam  in  his  steady  gray  eyes. 

"  They  told  me  in  the  laundry,"  he  said,  harshly, 
"  that  they  saw  her  pass  yesterday  —  in  an  automo- 
bile. With  one  of  the  millionaires,  I  suppose,  that 
you  and  Lou  were  forever  busying  your  brains  about." 

For  the  first  time  Nancy  quailed  before  a  man. 
She  laid  her  hand  that  trembled  slightly  on  Dan's 
sleeve. 

"  You've  no  right  to  say  such  a  thing  to  me,  Dan 
—  as  if  I  had  anything  to  do  with  it ! " 

"  I  didn't  mean  it  that  way,"  said  Dan,  softening. 
He  fumbled  in  his  vest  pocket. 

"I've  got  the  tickets  for  the  show  to-night,"  he 
said,  with  a  gallant  show  of  lightness.     "  If  you  — " 

Nancy  admired  pluck  whenever  she  saw  it. 


20  The  Trimmed  Lamp 

"  I'll  go  with  you,  Dan,"  she  said. 

Three  months  went  by  before  Nancy  saw  Lou  again. 

At  twilight  one  evening  the  shop-girl  was  hurrying 
home  along  the  border  of  a  little  quiet  park.  She 
heard  her  name  called,  and  wheeled  about  in  time  to 
catch  Lou  rushing  into  her  arms. 

After  the  first  embrace  they  drew  their  heads  back 
as  serpents  do,  ready  to  attack  or  to  charm,  with  a 
thousand  questions  trembling  on  their  swift  tongues. 
And  then  Nancy  noticed  that  prosperity  had  de- 
scended upon  Lou,  manifesting  itself  in  costly  furs, 
flashing  gems,  and  creations  of  the  tailors'  art. 

"  You  little  fool !  "  cried  Lou,  loudly  and  affec- 
tionately. "  I  see  you  are  still  working  in  that  store, 
and  as  shabby  as  ever.  And  how  about  that  big 
catch  you  were  going  to  make  —  nothing  doing  yet, 
I  suppose?" 

And  then  Lou  looked,  and  saw  that  something  bet- 
ter than  prosperity  had  descended  upon  Nancy  — 
something  that  shone  brighter  than  gems  in  her  eyes 
and  redder  than  a  rose  in  her  cheeks,  and  that  danced 
like  electricity  anxious  to  be  loosed  from  the  tip  of 
her  tongue. 

"  Yes,  I'm  still  in  the  store,"  said  Nancy,  "  but  I'm 
going  to  leave  it  next  week.  I've  made  my  catch  — 
the  biggest  catch  in  the  world.  You  won't  mind  now 
Lou,  will  you?  —  I'm  going  to  be  married  to  Dan  — 
to  Dan !  —  he's  my  Dan  now  —  why,  Lou  !  " 


The  Trimmed  Lamp  21 

Around  the  corner  of  the  park  strolled  one  of  those 
new-crop,  smooth-faced  young  policemen  that  are 
making  the  force  more  endurable  —  at  least  to  the 
eye.  He  saw  a  woman  with  an  expensive  fur  coat  and 
diamond-ringed  hands  crouching  down  against  the 
iron  fence  of  the  park  sobbing  turbulently,  while  a 
slender,  plainly-dressed  working  girl  leaned  close,  try- 
ing to  console  her.  But  the  Gibsonian  cop,  being  of 
the  new  order,  passed  on,  pretending  not  to  notice, 
for  he  was  wise  enough  to  know  that  these  matters 
are  beyond  help,  so  far  as  the  power  he  represents  is 
concerned,  though  he  rap  the  pavement  with  his  night- 
stick till  the  sound  goes  up  to  the  furthermost  stars. 


A  MADISON  SQUARE  ARABIAN  NIGHT 

1 0  Carson  Chalmers,  in  his  apartment  near  the 
square,  Phillips  brought  the  evening  mail.  Besides 
the  routine  correspondence  there  were  two  items  bear- 
ing the  same  foreign  postmark. 

One  of  the  incoming  parcels  contained  a  photo- 
graph of  a  woman.  The  other  contained  an  inter- 
minable letter,  over  which  Chalmers  hung,  absorbed, 
for  a  long  time.  The  letter  was  from  another 
woman ;  and  it  contained  poisoned  barbs,  sweetly 
dipped  in  honey,  and  feathered  with  innuendoes  con- 
cerning the  photographed  woman. 

Chalmers  tore  this  letter  into  a  thousand  bits  and 
began  to  wear  out  his  expensive  rug  by  striding  back 
and  forth  upon  it.  Thus  an  animal  from  the  jungle 
acts  when  it  is  caged,  and  thus  a  caged  man  acts 
when  he  is  housed  in  a  jungle  of  doubt. 

By  and  by  the  restless  mood  was  overcome.  The 
rug  was  not  an  enchanted  one.  For  sixteen  feet  he 
could  travel  along  it;  three  thousand  miles  was  be- 
yond its  power  to  aid. 

Phillips  appeared.  He  never  entered ;  he  invari- 
ably appeared,  like  a  well-oiled  genie. 

"  Will  you  dine  here,  sir,  or  out?  "  he  asked. 


A  Madison  Square  Arabian  Night     23 

"  Here,"  said  Chalmers,  "  and  in  half  an  hour." 
He  listened  glumly  to  the  January  blasts  making  an 
Aeolian  trombone  of  the  empty  street. 

"  Wait,"  he  said  to  the  disappearing  genie.  "  As 
I  came  home  across  the  end  of  the  square  I  saw  many 
men  standing  there  in  rows.  There  was  one  mounted 
upon  something,  talking.  Why  do  those  men  stand 
in  rows,  and  why  are  they  there  ?  " 

"  They  are  homeless  men,  sir,"  said  Phillips. 
"  The  man  standing  on  the  box  tries  to  get  lodging 
for  them  for  the  night.  People  come  around  to  lis- 
ten and  give  him  money.  Then  he  sends  as  many  as 
the  money  will  pay  for  to  some  lodging-house.  That 
is  why  they  stand  in  rows;  they  get  sent  to  bed  in 
order  as  they  come." 

"  By  the  time  dinner  is  served,"  said  Chalmers, 
"  have  one  of  those  men  here.  He  will  dine  with 
me." 

"W-w-which — ,"  began  Phillips,  stammering  for 
the  first  time  during  his  service. 

"  Choose  one  at  random,"  said  Chalmers.  "  You 
might  see  that  he  is  reasonably  sober  —  and  a  certain 
amount  of  cleanliness  will  not  be  held  against  him. 
That  is  all." 

It  was  an  unusual  thing  for  Carson  Chalmers  to 
play  the  Caliph.  But  on  that  night  he  felt  the  in- 
efficacy    of    conventional    antidotes    to    melancholy. 


24  The  Trimmed  Lamp 

Something  wanton  and  egregious,  something  high- 
flavored  and  Arabian,  he  must  have  to  lighten  his 
mood. 

On  the  half  hour  Phillips  had  finished  his  duties  as 
slave  of  the  lamp.  The  waiters  from  the  restaurant 
below  had  whisked  aloft  the  delectable  dinner.  The 
dining  table,  laid  for  two,  glowed  cheerily  in  the  glow 
of  the  pink-shaded  candles. 

And  now  Phillips,  as  though  he  ushered  a  cardinal 
—  or  held  in  charge  a  burglar  —  wafted  in  the  shiv- 
ering guest  who  had  been  haled  from  the  line  of  men- 
dicant lodgers. 

It  is  a  common  thing  to  call  such  men  wrecks ;  if 
the  comparison  be  used  here  it  is  the  specific  one  of 
a  derelict  come  to  grief  through  fire.  Even  yet  some 
flickering  combustion  illuminated  the  drifting  hulk. 
His  face  and  hands  has  been  recently  washed  —  a  rite 
insisted  upon  by  Phillips  as  a  memorial  to  the  slaugh- 
tered conventions.  In  the  candle-light  he  stood,  a 
flaw  in  the  decorous  fittings  of  the  apartment.  His 
face  was  a  sickly  white,  covered  almost  to  the  eyes  with 
a  stubble  the  shade  of  a  red  Irish  setter's  coat.  Phil- 
lips's comb  had  failed  to  control  the  pale  brown  hair, 
long  matted  and  conformed  to  the  contour  of  a  con- 
stantly worn  hat.  His  eyes  were  full  of  a  hopeless, 
tricky  defiance  like  that  seen  in  a  cur's  that  is  cornered 
by  his  tormentors.  His  shabby  coat  was  buttoned 
high,  but  a  quarter  inch  of  redeeming  collar  showed 


A  Madison  Square  Arabian  Night     25 

above  it.  His  manner  was  singularly  free  from  em- 
barrassment when  Chalmers  rose  from  his  chair  across 
the  round  dining  table. 

"  If  you  will  oblige  me,"  said  the  host,  "  I  will  be 
glad  to  have  your  company  at  dinner." 

"  My  name  is  Plumer,"  said  the  highway  guest,  in 
harsh  and  aggressive  tones.  "  If  you're  like  me,  you 
like  to  know  the  name  of  the  party  you're  dining 
with." 

"  I  was  going  on  to  say,"  continued  Chalmers 
somewhat  hastily,  "  that  mine  is  Chalmers.  Will 
you  sit  opposite?  " 

Plumer,  of  the  ruffled  plumes,  bent  his  knee  for 
Phillips  to  slide  the  chair  beneath  him.  He  had  an 
air  of  having  sat  at  attended  boards  before.  Phillips 
set  out  the  anchovies  and  olives. 

"  Good !  "  barked  Plumer ;  "  Going  to  be  in  courses, 
is  it?  All  right,  my  jovial  ruler  of  Bagdad.  I'm 
your  Scheherezade  all  the  way  to  the  toothpicks. 
You're  the  first  Caliph  with  a  genuine  Oriental  flavor 
I've  struck  since  frost.  What  luck !  And  I  was 
forty-third  in  line.  I  finished  counting,  just  as  your 
welcome  emissary  arrived  to  bid  me  to  the  feast.  I 
had  about  as  much  chance  of  getting  a  bed  to-night 
as  I  have  of  being  the  next  President.  How  will  you 
have  the  sad  story  of  my  life,  Mr.  Al  Raschid  —  a 
chapter  with  each  course  or  the  whole  edition  with  the 
cigars  and  coffee  ?  " 


26  The  Trimmed  Lamp 

"  The  situation  does  not  seem  a  novel  one  to  you," 
said  Chalmers  with  a  smile. 

"  By  the  chin  whiskers  of  the  prophet  —  no !  "  an- 
swered the  guest.  "  New  York's  as  full  of  cheap 
Haroun  al  Raschids  as  Bagdad  is  of  fleas.  I've  been 
held  up  for  my  story  with  a  loaded  meal  pointed  at 
my  head  twenty  times.  Catch  anybody  in  New  York 
giving  you  something  for  nothing !  They  spell  curi- 
osity and  charity  with  the  same  set  of  building  blocks. 
Lots  of  'em  will  stake  you  to  a  dime  and  chop-suey ; 
and  a  few  of  'em  will  play  Caliph  to  the  tune  of  a  top 
sirloin;  but  every  one  of  'em  will  stand  over  you  till 
they  screw  your  autobiography  out  of  you  with  foot 
notes,  appendix  and  unpublished  fragments.  Oh,  I 
know  what  to  do  when  I  see  victuals  coming  toward 
me  in  little  old  Bagdad-on-the-Subway.  I  strike  the 
asphalt  three  times  with  my  forehead  and  get  ready 
to  spiel  yarns  for  my  supper.  I  claim  descent  from 
the  late  Tommy  Tucker,  who  was  forced  to  hand  out 
vocal  harmony  for  his  pre-digested  wheaterina  and 
spoopju." 

"  I  do  not  ask  your  story,"  said  Chalmers.  "  I 
tell  you  frankly  that  it  was  a  sudden  whim  that 
prompted  me  to  send  for  some  stranger  to  dine  with 
me.  I  assure  you  you  will  not  suffer  through  any 
curiosity  of  mine." 

"  Oh,  fudge !  "  exclaimed  the  guest,  enthusiastically 
tackling  his  soup ;  "  I  don't  mind  it  a  bit.     I'm  a  reg- 


A  Madison  Square  Arabian  Night     27 

ular  Oriental  magazine  with  a  red  cover  and  the  leaves 
cut  when  the  Caliph  walks  abroad.  In  fact,  we  fel- 
lows in  the  bed  line  have  a  sort  of  union  rate  for 
things  of  this  sort.  Somebody's  always  stopping  and 
wanting  to  know  what  brought  us  down  so  low  in  the 
world.  For  a  sandwich  and  a  glass  of  beer  I  tell  'em 
that  drink  did  it.  For  corned  beef  and  cabbage  and 
a  cup  of  coffee  I  give  'em  the  hard-hearted-landlord  — 
six-months-in-the-hospital-lost-job  story.  A  sirloin 
steak  and  a  quarter  for  a  bed  gets  the  Wall  Street 
tragedy  of  the  swept-away  fortune  and  the  gradual 
descent.  This  is  the  first  spread  of  this  kind  I've 
stumbled  against.  I  haven't  got  a  story  to  fit  it.  I'll 
tell  you  what,  Mr.  Chalmers,  I'm  going  to  tell  you  the 
truth  for  this,  if  you'll  listen  to  it.  It'll  be  harder 
for  you  to  believe  than  the  made-up  ones." 

An  hour  later  the  Arabian  guest  lay  back  with  a 
sigh  of  satisfaction  while  Phillips  brought  the  coffee 
and  cigars  and  cleared  the  table. 

"  Did  you  ever  hear  of  Sherrard  Plumer? "  he 
asked,  with  a  strange  smile. 

"  I  remember  the  name,"  said  Chalmers.  "  He  was 
a  painter,  I  think,  of  a  good  deal  of  prominence  a 
few  years  ago." 

"  Five  years,"  said  the  guest.  "  Then  I  went  down 
like  a  chunk  of  lead.  I'm  Sherrard  Plumer!  I  sold 
the  last  portrait  I  painted  for  $2,000.  After  that  I 
couldn't  have  found  a  sitter  for  a  gratis  picture." 


28  The  Trimmed  Lamp 

"What  was  the  trouble?"  Chalmers  could  not  re- 
sist asking. 

"Funny  thing,"  answered  Plumer,  grimly. 
"  Never  quite  understood  it  myself.  For  a  while  I 
swam  like  a  cork.  I  broke  into  the  swell  crowd  and 
got  commissions  right  and  left.  The  newspapers 
called  me  a  fashionable  painter.  Then  the  funny 
things  began  to  happen.  Whenever  I  finished  a  pic- 
ture people  would  come  to  see  it,  and  whisper  and 
look  queerly  at  one  another. 

"  I  soon  found  out  what  the  trouble  was.  I  had  a 
knack  of  bringing  out  in  the  face  of  a  portrait  the 
hidden  character  of  the  original.  I  don't  know  how 
I  did  it  —  I  painted  what  I  saw  —  but  I  know  it  did 
me.  Some  of  my  sitters  were  fearfully  enraged  and 
refused  their  pictures.  I  painted  the  portrait  of  a 
very  beautiful  and  popular  society  dame.  When  it 
was  finished  her  husband  looked  at  it  with  a  peculiar 
expression  on  his  face,  and  the  next  week  he  sued  for 
divorce. 

"  I  remember  one  case  of  a  prominent  banker  who 
sat  to  me.  While  I  had  his  portrait  on  exhibition  in 
my  studio  an  acquaintance  of  his  came  in  to  look  at 
it.  'Bless  me,'  says  he,  'does  he  really  look  like 
that?  '  I  told  him  it  was  considered  a  faithful  like- 
ness. '  I  never  noticed  that  expression  about  his  eyes 
before,'  said  he ;  '  I  think  I'll  drop  downtown  and 
change  my  bank  account.'     He  did  drop  down,  but 


A  Madison  Square  Arabian  Night     29 

the  bank  account  was  gone  and  so  was  Mr.  Banker. 

"  It  wasn't  long  till  they  put  me  out  of  business. 
People  don't  want  their  secret  meannesses  shown  up  in 
a  picture.  They  can  smile  and  twist  their  own  faces 
and  deceive  you,  but  the  picture  can't.  I  couldn't  get 
an  order  for  another  picture,  and  I  had  to  give  up. 
I  worked  as  a  newspaper  artist  for  a  while,  and  then 
for  a  lithographer,  but  my  work  with  them  got  me  into 
the  same  trouble.  If  I  drew  from  a  photograph  my 
drawing  showed  up  characteristics  and  expressions 
that  you  couldn't  find  in  the  photo,  but  I  guess  they 
were  in  the  original,  all  right.  The  customers  raised 
lively  rows,  especially  the  women,  and  I  never  could 
hold  a  job  long.  So  I  began  to  rest  my  weary  head 
upon  the  breast  of  Old  Booze  for  comfort.  And 
pretty  soon  I  was  in  the  free-bed  line  and  doing  oral 
fiction  for  hand-outs  among  the  food  bazaars.  Does 
the  truthful  statement  weary  thee,  O  Caliph?  I  can 
turn  on  the  Wall  Street  disaster  stop  if  you  prefer, 
but  that  requires  a  tear,  and  I'm  afraid  I  can't  hustle 
one  up  after  that  good  dinner." 

"  No,  no,"  said  Chalmers,  earnestly,  "  you  interest 
me  very  much.  Did  all  of  your  portraits  reveal  some 
unpleasant  trait,  or  were  there  some  that  did  not 
suffer  from  the  ordeal  of  your  peculiar  brush?  " 

"Some?  Yes,"  said  Plumer.  "Children  gener- 
ally, a  good  many  women  and  a  sufficient  number  of 
men.     All  people  aren't  bad,  you  know.     When  they 


30  The  Trimmed  Lamp 

were  all  right  the  pictures  were  all  right.  As  I  said, 
I  don't  explain  it,  but  I'm  telling  you  facts." 

On  Chalmers's  writing-table  lay  the  photograph 
that  he  had  received  that  day  in  the  foreign  mail. 
Ten  minutes  later  he  had  Plumer  at  work  making  a 
sketch  from  it  in  pastels.  At  the  end  of  an  hour  the 
artist  rose  and  stretched  wearily. 

"  It's  done,"  he  yawned.  "  You'll  excuse  me  for 
being  so  long.  I  got  interested  in  the  job.  Lordy! 
jut  I'm  tired.  No  bed  last  night,  you  know.  Guess 
it'll  have  to  be  good  night  now,  O  Commander  of  the 
Faithful !  " 

Chalmers  went  as  far  as  the  door  with  him  and 
slipped  some  bills  into  his  hand. 

"  Oh !  I'll  take  'em,"  said  Plumer.  "  All  that's  in- 
cluded in  the  fall.  Thanks.  And  for  the  very  good 
dinner.  I  shall  sleep  on  feathers  to-night  and  dream 
of  Bagdad.  I  hope  it  won't  turn  out  to  be  a  dream 
in  the  morning.     Farewell,  most  excellent  Caliph !  " 

Again  Chalmers  paced  restlessly  upon  his  rug.  But 
his  beat  lay  as  far  from  the  table  whereon  lay  the 
pastel  sketch  as  the  room  would  permit.  Twice,  thrice, 
he  tried  to  approach  it,  but  failed.  He  could  see  the 
dun  and  gold  and  brown  of  the  colors,  but  there  was 
a  wall  about  it  built  by  his  fears  that  kept  him  at  a 
distance.  He  sat  down  and  tried  to  calm  himself. 
He  sprang  up  and  rang  for  Phillips. 

"  There  is  a  young  artist  in  this  building,"  he  said, 


A  Madison  Square  Arabian  Night     81 

" — a  Mr.  Reineman —  do  you  know  which  is  his 
apartment  ?  " 

"  Top  floor,  front,  sir,"  said  Phillips. 

"  Go  up  and  ask  him  to  favor  me  with  his  presence 
here  for  a  few  minutes." 

Reineman  came  at  once.  Chalmers  introduced  him- 
self. 

"  Mr.  Reineman,"  said  he,  "  there  is  a  little  pastel 
sketch  on  yonder  table.  I  would  be  glad  if  you  will 
give  me  your  opinion  of  it  as  to  its  artistic  merits  and 
as  a  picture." 

The  young  artist  advanced  to  the  table  and  took  up 
the  sketch.  Chalmers  half  turned  away,  leaning  upon 
the  back  of  a  chair. 

"  How  —  do  —  you  —  find  it  ?  "  he  asked,  slowly. 

"  As  a  drawing,"  said  the  artist,  "  I  can't  praise  it 
enough.  It's  the  work  of  a  master  —  bold  and  fine 
and  true.  It  puzzles  me  a  little;  I  haven't  seen  any 
pastel  work  near  as  good  in  years." 

"The  face,  man  —  the  subject  —  the  original  — 
what  would  you  say  of  that  ?  " 

"  The  face,"  said  Reineman,  "  is  the  face  of  one  of 
God's  own  angels.     May  I  ask  who  — " 

M  My  wife ! "  shouted  Chalmers,  wheeling  and 
pouncing  upon  the  astonished  artist,  gripping  his 
hand  and  pounding  his  back.  "  She  is  traveling  in 
Europe.  Take  that  sketch,  boy,  and  paint  the  pic- 
ture of  your  life  from  it  and  leave  the  price  to  me." 


THE  RUBAIYAT  OF  A  SCOTCH  HIGHBALL 

THIS  document  is  intended  to  strike  somewhere  be- 
tween a  temperance  lecture  and  the  "  Bartender's 
Guide."  Relative  to  the  latter,  drink  shall  swell  the 
theme  and  be  set  forth  in  abundance.  Agreeably  to 
the  former,  not  an  elbow  shall  be  crooked. 

Bob  Babbitt  was  "  off  the  stuff."  Which  means  — 
as  you  will  discover  by  referring  to  the  unabridged 
dictionary  of  Bohemia  —  that  he  had  "  cut  out  the 
booze ; "  that  he  was  "  on  the  water  wagon."  The 
reason  for  Bob's  sudden  attitude  of  hostility  toward 
the  "  demon  rum  " —  as  the  white  ribboners  miscall 
whiskey  (see  the  "Bartender's  Guide"),  should  be 
of  interest  to  reformers  and  saloon-keepers. 

There  is  always  hope  for  a  man  who,  when  sober, 
will  not  concede  or  acknowledge  that  he  was  ever 
drunk.  But  when  a  man  will  say  (in  the  apt  words  of 
the  phrase-distiller),  "  I  had  a  beautiful  skate  on  last 
night,"  you  will  have  to  put  stuff  in  his  coffee  as  well 
as  pray  for  him. 

One  evening  on  his  way  home  Babbitt  dropped  in  at 

the  Broadway  bar  that  he  liked  best.     Always  there 

were  three  or  four  fellows  there  from  the  downtown 

offices  whom  he  knew.     And  then  there  would  be  high- 

32 


The  Rubaiyat  of  a  Scotch  Highball    33 

balls  and  stories,  and  he  would  hurry  home  to  dinner 
a  little  late  but  feeling  good,  and  a  little  sorry  for  the 
poor  Standard  Oil  Company.  On  this  evening  as  he 
entered  he  heard  some  one  say :  "  Babbitt  was  in  last 
night  as  full  as  a  boiled  owl." 

Babbitt  walked  to  the  bar,  and  saw  in  the  mirror 
that  his  face  was  as  white  as  chalk.  For  the  first  time 
he  had  looked  Truth  in  the  eyes.  Others  had  lied  to 
him;  he  had  dissembled  with  himself.  He  was  a 
drunkard,  and  had  not  known  it.  What  he  had 
fondly  imagined  was  a  pleasant  exhilaration  had  been 
maudlin  intoxication.  His  fancied  wit  had  been 
drivel ;  his  gay  humors  nothing  but  the  noisy  vagaries 
of  a  sot.     But,  never  again ! 

"  A  glass  of  seltzer,"  he  said  to  the  bartender. 

A  little  silence  fell  upon  the  group  of  his  cronies, 
who  had  been  expecting  him  to  join  them. 

"Going  off  the  stuff,  Bob?"  one  of  them  asked 
politely  and  with  more  formality  than  the  highballs 
ever  called  forth. 

"  Yes,"  said  Babbitt. 

Some  one  of  the  group  took  up  the  unwashed  thread 
of  a  story  he  had  been  telling;  the  bartender  shoved 
over  a  dime  and  a  nickel  change  from  the  quarter, 
ungarnished  with  his  customary  smile;  and  Babbitt 
walked  out. 

Now,  Babbitt  had  a  home  and  a  wife  —  but  that  is 
another  story.     And  I  will  tell  you  that  story,  which 


34  The  Trimmed  Lamp 

will  show  you  a  better  habit  and  a  worse  story  than 
you  could  find  in  the  man  who  invented  the  phrase. 

It  began  away  up  in  Sullivan  County,  where  so 
many  rivers  and  so  much  trouble  begins  —  or  begin ; 
how  would  you  say  that  ?  It  was  July,  and  Jessie  was 
a  summer  boarder  at  the  Mountain  Squint  Hotel,  and 
Bob,  who  was  just  out  of  college,  saw  her  one  day  — 
and  they  were  married  in  September.  That's  the 
tabloid  novel  —  one  swallow  of  water,  and  it's  gone. 

But  those  July  days  ! 

Let  the  exclamation  point  expound  it,  for  I  shall 
not.  For  particulars  you  might  read  up  on  "  Romeo 
and  Juliet,"  and  Abraham  Lincoln's  thrilling  sonnet 
about  "  You  can  fool  some  of  the  people,"  &c,  and 
Darwin's  works. 

But  one  thing  I  must  tell  you  about.  Both  of  them 
were  mad  over  Omar's  Rubaiyat.  They  knew  every 
verse  of  the  old  bluffer  by  heart  —  not  consecutively, 
but  picking  'em  out  here  and  there  as  you  fork  the 
mushrooms  in  a  fifty-cent  steak  a,  la  Bordelaise.  Sul- 
livan County  is  full  of  rocks  and  trees ;  and  Jessie  used 
to  sit  on  them,  and  —  please  be  good  —  used  to  sit  on 
the  rocks ;  and  Bob  had  a  way  of  standing  behind  her 
with  his  hands  over  her  shoulders  holding  her  hands, 
and  his  face  close  to  hers,  and  they  would  repeat  over 
and  over  their  favorite  verses  of  the  old  tent-maker. 
They  saw  only  the  poetry  and  philosophy  of  the  lines 
then  —  indeed,  they  agreed  that  the  Wine  was  only 


The  Rubaiyat  of  a  Scotch  Highball    35 

an  image,  and  that  what  was  meant  to  be  celebrated 
was  some  divinity,  or  maybe  Love  or  Life.  However, 
at  that  time  neither  of  them  had  tasted  the  stuff  that 
goes  with  a  sixty-cent  table  d'hote. 

Where  was  I?  Oh,  they  married  and  came  to  New 
York.  Bob  showed  his  college  diploma,  and  accepted 
a  position  filling  inkstands  in  a  lawyer's  office  at  $15 
a  week.  At  the  end  of  two  years  he  had  worked  up  to 
$50,  and  gotten  his  first  taste  of  Bohemia  —  the  kind 
that  won't  stand  the  borax  and  formaldehyde  tests. 

They  had  two  furnished  rooms  and  a  little  kitchen. 
To  Jess,  accustomed  to  the  mild  but  beautiful  savor  of 
a  country  town,  the  dreggy  Bohemia  was  sugar  and 
spice.  She  hung  fish  seines  on  the  walls  of  her  rooms, 
and  bought  a  rakish-looking  sideboard,  and  learned  to 
play  the  banjo.  Twice  or  thrice  a  week  they  dined 
at  French  or  Italian  tables  d'hote  in  a  cloud  of  smoke, 
and  brag  and  unshorn  hair.  Jess  learned  to  drink  a 
cocktail  in  order  to  get  the  cherry.  At  home  she 
smoked  a  cigarette  after  dinner.  She  learned  to  pro- 
nounce Chianti,  and  leave  her  olive  stones  for  the 
waiter  to  pick  up.  Once  she  esayed  to  say  la,  la,  la ! 
in  a  crowd  but  got  only  as  far  as  the  second  one. 
They  met  one  or  two  couples  while  dining  out  and 
became  friendly  with  them.  The  sideboard  was 
stocked  with  Scotch  and  rye  and  a  liqueur.  They  had 
their  new  friends  in  to  dinner  and  all  were  laughing 
at  nothing  by  1  A.  M.     Some  plastering  fell  in  the 


36  The  Trimmed  Lamp 

room  below  them,  for  which  Bob  had  to  pay  $4.50. 
Thus  they  footed  it  merrily  on  the  ragged  frontiers  of 
the  country  that  has  no  boundary  lines  or  government. 

And  soon  Bob  fell  in  with  his  cronies  and  learned 
to  keep  his  foot  on  the  little  rail  six  inches  above  the 
floor  for  an  hour  or  so  every  afternoon  before  he 
went  home.  Drink  always  rubbed  him  the  right  way, 
and  he  would  reach  his  rooms  as  jolly  as  a  sandboy. 
Jessie  would  meet  him  at  the  door,  and  generally  they 
would  dance  some  insane  kind  of  a  rigadoon  about  the 
floor  by  way  of  greeting.  Once  when  Bob's  feet 
became  confused  and  he  tumbled  headlong  over  a 
foot-stool  Jessie  laughed  so  heartily  and  long  that  he 
had  to  throw  all  the  couch  pillows  at  her  to  make  her 
hush. 

In  such  wise  life  was  speeding  for  them  on  the  day 
when  Bob  Babbitt  first  felt  the  power  that  the  giftie 
gi'ed  him. 

But  let  us  get  back  to  our  lamb  and  mint  sauce. 

When  Bob  got  home  that  evening  he  found  Jessie 
in  a  long  apron  cutting  up  a  lobster  for  the  Newburg. 
Usually  when  Bob  came  in  mellow  from  his  hour  at 
the  bar  his  welcome  was  hilarious,  though  somewhat 
tinctured  with  Scotch  smoke. 

By  screams  and  snatches  of  song  and  certain  audible 
testimonials  of  domestic  felicity  was  his  advent  pro- 
claimed. When  she  heard  his  foot  on  the  stairs  the 
old  maid  in  the  hall  room  always  stuffed  cotton  into 


The  Rubaiyat  of  a  Scotch  Highball    37 

her  ears.  At  first  Jessie  had  shrunk  from  the  rude- 
ness and  flavor  of  these  spiritual  greetings,  but  as  the 
fog  of  the  false  Bohemia  gradually  encompassed  her 
she  came  to  accept  them  as  love's  true  and  proper 
greeting. 

Bob  came  in  without  a  word,  smiled,  kissed  her 
neatly  but  noiselessly,  took  up  a  paper  and  sat  down. 
In  the  hall  room  the  old  maid  held  her  two  plugs  of 
cotton  poised,  filled  with  anxiety. 

Jessie  dropped  lobster  and  knife  and  ran  to  him 
with  frightened  eyes. 

"What's  the  matter,  Bob,  are  you  ill?" 

"  Not  at  all,  dear." 

"  Then  what's  the  matter  with  you  ?  " 

"  Nothing." 

Hearken,  brethren.  When  She-who-has-a-right-to- 
ask  interrogates  you  concerning  a  change  she  finds  in 
your  mood  answer  her  thus :  Tell  her  that  you,  in  a 
sudden  rage,  have  murdered  your  grandmother;  tell 
her  that  you  have  robbed  orphans  and  that  remorse 
has  stricken  you ;  tell  her  your  fortune  is  swept  away ; 
that  you  are  beset  by  enemies,  by  bunions,  by  any  kind 
of  malevolent  fate ;  but  do  not,  if  peace  and  happiness 
are  worth  as  much  as  a  grain  of  mustard  seed  to  you 
—  do  not  answer  her  "  Nothing." 

Jessie  went  back  to  the  lobster  in  silence.  She  cast 
looks  of  darkest  suspicion  at  Bob.  He  had  never 
acted  that  way  before. 


38  The  Trimmed  Lamp 

When  dinner  was  on  the  table  she  set  out  the  bottle 
of  Scotch  and  the  glasses.     Bob  declined. 

"  Tell  you  the  truth,  Jess,"  he  said.  "  I've  cut  out 
the  drink.  Help  yourself,  of  course.  If  you  don't 
mind  I'll  try  some  of  the  seltzer  straight." 

"  You've  stopped  drinking?  "  she  said,  looking  at 
him  steadily  and  unsmilingly.     "  What  for  ?  " 

"  It  wasn't  doing  me  any  good,"  said  Bob. 
"  Don't  you  approve  of  the  idea?  " 

Jessie  raised  her  eyebrows  and  one  shoulder  slightly. 

"  Entirely,"  she  said  with  a  sculptured  smile.  "  I 
could  not  conscientiously  advise  any  one  to  drink  or 
smoke,  or  whistle  on  Sunday." 

The  meal  was  finished  almost  in  silence.  Bob  tried 
to  make  talk,  but  his  efforts  lacked  the  stimulus  of 
previous  evenings.  He  felt  miserable,  and  once  or 
twice  his  eye  wandered  toward  the  bottle,  but  each 
time  the  scathing  words  of  his  bibulous  friend  sounded 
in  his  ear,  and  his  mouth  set  with  determination. 

Jessie  felt  the  change  deeply.  The  essence  of  their 
lives  seemed  to  have  departed  suddenly.  The  restless 
fever,  the  false  gayety,  the  unnatural  excitement  of 
the  shoddy  Bohemia  in  which  they  had  lived  had 
dropped  away  in  the  space  of  the  popping  of  a  cork. 
She  stole  curious  and  forlorn  glances  at  the  dejected 
Bob,  who  bore  the  guilty  look  of  at  least  a  wife-beater 
or  a  family  tyrant. 

After  dinner  the  colored  maid  who  came  in  daily 


The  Rubaiyat  of  a  Scotch  Highball    39 

to  perform  such  chores  cleared  away  the  things. 
Jessie,  with  an  unreadable  countenance,  brought  back 
the  bottle  of  Scotch  and  the  glasses  and  a  bowl  of 
cracked  ice  and  set  them  on  the  table. 

"  May  I  ask,"  she  said,  with  some  of  the  ice  in  her 
tones,  '*  whether  I  am  to  be  included  in  your  sudden 
spasm  of  goodness  ?  If  not,  I'll  make  one  for  myself. 
It's  rather  chilly  this  evening,  for  some  reason." 

"  Oh,  come  now,  Jess,"  said  Bob  good-naturedly, 
"  don't  be  too  rough  on  me.  Help  yourself,  by  all 
means.  There's  no  danger  of  your  overdoing  it.  But 
I  thought  there  was  with  me;  and  that's  why  I  quit. 
Have  yours,  and  then  let's  get  out  the  banjo  and  try 
over  that  new  quickstep." 

"  I've  heard,"  said  Jessie  in  the  tones  of  the  oracle, 
"  that  drinking  alone  is  a  pernicious  habit.  No,  I 
don't  think  I  feel  like  playing  this  evening.  If  we  are 
going  to  reform  we  may  as  well  abandon  the  evil  habit 
of  banjo-playing,  too." 

She  took  up  a  book  and  sat  in  her  little  willow 
rocker  on  the  other  side  of  the  table.  Neither  of 
them  spoke  for  half  an  hour. 

And  then  Bob  laid  down  his  paper  and  got  up  with 
a  strange,  absent  look  on  his  face  and  went  behind  her 
chair  and  reached  over  her  shoulders,  taking  her  hands 
in  his,  and  laid  his  face  close  to  hers. 

In  a  moment  to  Jessie  the  walls  of  the  seine-hung 
room  vanished,  and  she  saw  the  Sullivan  County  hills 


40  The  Trimmed  Lamp 

and  rills.     Bob  felt  her  hands  quiver  in  his  as  he  be- 
gan the  verse  from  old  Omar : 

"  Come,  fill  the  Cup,  and  in  the  Fire  of  Spring 
The  Winter  Garment  of  Repentance  fling : 
The  Bird  of  Time  has  but  a  little  way 
To  fly  —  and  Lo !  the  Bird  is  on  the  Wing ! " 
And  then  he  walked  to  the  table  and  poured  a  stiff 
drink  of  Scotch  into  a  glass. 

But  in  that  moment  a  mountain  breeze  had  some- 
how found  its  way  in  and  blown  away  the  mist  of  the 
false  Bohemia. 

Jessie  leaped  and  with  one  fierce  sweep  of  her  hand 
sent  the  bottle  and  glasses  crashing  to  the  floor.  The 
same  motion  of  her  arm  carried  it  around  Bob's  neck, 
where  it  met  its  mate  and  fastened  tight. 

"  Oh,  my  God,  Bobbie  —  not  that  verse  —  I  see 
now.  I  wasn't  always  such  a  fool,  was  I?  The  other 
one,  boy  —  the  one  that  says :  *  Remould  it  to  the 
Heart's  Desire.'  Say  that  one  — '  to  the  Heart's 
Desire.' " 

"  I  know  that  one,"  said  Bob.     "  It  goes : 
"  '  Ah !  Love,  could  you  and  I  with  Him  conspire 
To  grasp  this  sorry  Scheme  of  Things  entire 
Would  not  we  — '  " 
"  Let  me  finish  it,"  said  Jessie. 
"  *  Would  not  we  shatter  it  to  bits  —  and  then 
Remould  it  nearer  to  the  Heart's  Desire ! '  " 


The  Rubaiyat  of  a  Scotch  Highball    41 

"  It's  shattered  all  right,"  said  Bob,  crunching 
some  glass  under  his  heel. 

In  some  dungeon  below  the  accurate  ear  of  Mrs. 
Pickens,  the  landlady,  located  the  smash. 

"  It's  that  wild  Mr.  Babbitt  coming  home  soused 
again,"  she  said.  "  And  he's  got  such  a  nice  little 
wife,  too ! " 


THE  PENDULUM 

'  'ElGHTY-FIRST  Street  — let  'em  out,  please," 
yelled  the  shepherd  in  blue. 

A  flock  of  citizen  sheep  scrambled  out  and  another 
flock  scrambled  aboard.  Ding-ding !  The  cattle  cars 
of  the  Manhattan  Elevated  rattled  away,  and  John 
Perkins  drifted  down  the  stairway  of  the  station  with 
the  released  flock. 

John  walked  slowly  toward  his  flat.  Slowly,  be- 
cause in  the  lexicon  of  his  daily  life  there  was  no  such 
word  as  "  perhaps."  There  are  no  surprises  awaiting 
a  man  who  has  been  married  two  years  and  lives  in  a 
flat.  As  he  walked  John  Perkins  prophesied  to  him- 
self with  gloomy  and  downtrodden  cynicism  the  fore- 
gone conclusions  of  the  monotonous  day. 

Katy  would  meet  him  at  the  door  with  a  kiss  fla- 
vored with  cold  cream  and  butter-scotch.  He  would 
remove  his  coat,  sit  upon  a  macadamized  lounge  and 
read,  in  the  evening  paper,  of  Russians  and  Japs 
slaughtered  by  the  deadly  linotype.  For  dinner  there 
would  be  pot  roast,  a  salad  flavored  with  a  dressing 
warranted  not  to  crack  or  injure  the  leather,  stewed 
rhubarb  and  the  bottle  of  strawberry  marmalade  blush- 
ing at  the  certificate  of  chemical  purity  on  its  label. 

m 


The  Pendulum  43 

After  dinner  Katy  would  show  him  the  new  patch  in 
her  crazy  quilt  that  the  iceman  had  cut  for  her  off  the 
end  of  his  four-in-hand.  At  half-past  seven  they 
would  spread  newspapers  over  the  furniture  to  catch 
the  pieces  of  plastering  that  fell  when  the  fat  man  in 
the  flat  overhead  began  to  take  his  physical  culture 
exercises.  Exactly  at  eight  Hickey  &  Mooney,  of 
the  vaudeville  team  (unbooked)  in  the  flat  across  the 
hall,  would  yield  to  the  gentle  influence  of  delirium 
tremens  and  begin  to  overturn  chairs  under  the  de- 
lusion that  Hammerstein  was  pursuing  them  with  a 
five-hundred-dollar-a-week  contract.  Then  the  gent 
at  the  window  across  the  air-shaft  would  get  out  his 
flute ;  the  nightly  gas  leak  would  steal  forth  to  frolic 
in  the  highways ;  the  dumbwaiter  would  slip  off  its 
trolley;  the  janitor  would  drive  Mrs.  Zanowitski's  five 
children  once  more  across  the  Yalu,  the  lady  with  the 
champagne  shoes  and  the  Skye  terrier  would  trip 
downstairs  and  paste  her  Thursday  name  over  her 
bell  and  letter-box  —  and  the  evening  routine  of  the 
Frogmore  flats  would  be  under  way. 

John  Perkins  knew  these  things  would  happen. 
And  he  knew  that  at  a  quarter  past  eight  he  would 
summon  his  nerve  and  reach  for  his  hat,  and  that  his 
wife  would  deliver  this  speech  in  a  querulous  tone: 

"  Now,  where  are  you  going,  I'd  like  to  know,  John 
Perkins?" 

Thought  I'd  drop  up  to  McCloskey's,"  he  would 


.. 


44  The  Trimmed  Lamp 

answer,  "  and  play  a  game  or  two  of  pool  with  the 
fellows." 

Of  late  such  had  been  John  Perkins's  habit.  At  ten 
or  eleven  he  would  return.  Sometimes  Katy  would 
be  asleep ;  sometimes  waiting  up,  ready  to  melt  in  the 
crucible  of  her  ire  a  little  more  gold  plating  from  the 
wrought  steel  chains  of  matrimony.  For  these  things 
Cupid  will  have  to  answer  when  he  stands  at  the  bar 
of  justice  with  his  victims  from  the  Frogmore  flats. 

To-night  John  Perkins  encountered  a  tremendous 
upheaval  of  the  commonplace  when  he  reached  his 
door.  No  Katy  was  there  with  her  affectionate,  con- 
fectionate  kiss.  The  three  rooms  seemed  in  portentous 
disorder.  All  about  lay  her  things  in  confusion. 
Shoes  in  the  middle  of  the  floor,  curling  tongs,  hair 
bows,  kimonos,  powder  box,  jumbled  together  on 
dresser  and  chairs  —  this  was  not  Katy's  way.  With 
a  sinking  heart  John  saw  the  comb  with  a  curling 
cloud  of  her  brown  hair  among  its  teeth.  Some  un- 
usual hurry  and  perturbation  must  have  possessed 
her,  for  she  always  carefully  placed  these  combings 
in  the  little  blue  vase  on  the  mantel  to  be  some  day 
formed  into  the  coveted  feminine  "  rat." 

Hanging  conspicuously  to  the  gas  jet  by  a  string 
was  a  folded  paper.  John  seized  it.  It  was  a  note 
from  his  wife  running  thus : 


The  Pendulum  45 

"  Dear  John:  I  just  had  a  telegram  saying  mother 
is  very  sick.  I  am  going  to  take  the  4.30  train. 
Brother  Sam  is  going  to  met  me  at  the  depot  there. 
There  is  cold  mutton  in  the  ice  box.  I  hope  it  isn't 
her  quinzy  again.  Pay  the  milkman  50  cents.  She 
had  it  bad  last  spring.  Don't  forget  to  write  to  the 
company  about  the  gas  meter,  and  your  good  socks 
are  in  the  top  drawer.     I  will  write  to-morrow. 

Hastily,  KATY." 

Never  during  their  two  years  of  matrimony  had 
he  and  Katy  been  separated  for  a  night.  John  read 
the  note  over  and  over  in  a  dumbfounded  way.  Here 
was  a  break  in  a  routine  that  had  never  varied,  and 
it  left  him  dazed. 

There  on  the  back  of  a  chair  hung,  pathetically 
empty  and  formless,  the  red  wrapper  with  black  dots 
that  she  always  wore  while  getting  the  meals.  Her 
week-day  clothes  had  been  tossed  here  and  there  in  her 
haste.  A  little  paper  bag  of  her  favorite  butter- 
scotch lay  with  its  string  yet  unwound.  A  daily 
paper  sprawled  on  the  floor,  gaping  rectangularly 
where  a  railroad  time-table  had  been  clipped  from  it. 
Everything  in  the  room  spoke  of  a  loss,  of  an  essence 
gone,  of  its  soul  and  life  departed.  John  Perkins 
stood  among  the  dead  remains  with  a  queer  feeling  of 
desolation  in  his  heart. 

He  began  to  set  the  rooms  tidy  as  well  as  he  could. 


46  The  Trimmed  Lamp 

When  he  touched  her  clothes  a  thrill  of  something  like 
terror  went  through  him.  He  had  never  thought  what 
existence  would  be  without  Katy.  She  had  become  so 
thoroughly  annealed  into  his  life  that  she  was  like  the 
air  he  breathed  —  necessary  but  scarcely  noticed. 
Now,  without  warning,  she  was  gone,  vanished,  as 
completely  absent  as  if  she  had  never  existed.  Of 
course  it  would  be  only  for  a  few  days,  or  at  most  a 
week  or  two,  but  it  seemed  to  him  as  if  the  very  hand 
of  death  had  pointed  a  finger  at  his  secure  and  un- 
eventful home. 

John  dragged  the  cold  mutton  from  the  ice-box, 
made  coffee  and  sat  down  to  a  lonely  meal  face  to  face 
with  the  strawberry  marmalade's  shameless  certificate 
of  purity.  Bright  among  withdrawn  blessings  now 
appeared  to  him  the  ghosts  of  pot  roasts  and  the  salad 
with  tan  polish  dressing.  His  home  was  dismantled. 
A  quinzied  mother-in-law  had  knocked  his  lares  and 
penates  sky-high.  After  his  solitary  meal  John  sat 
at  a  front  window. 

He  did  not  care  to  smoke.  Outside  the  city  roared 
to  him  to  come  join  in  its  dance  of  folly  and  pleasure. 
The  night  was  his.  He  might  go  forth  unquestioned 
and  thrum  the  strings  of  jollity  as  free  as  any  gay 
bachelor  there.  He  might  carouse  and  wander  and 
have  his  fling  until  dawn  if  he  liked ;  and  there  would 
be  no  wrathful  Katy  waiting  for  him,  bearing  the 
chalice  that  held  the  dregs  of  his  joy.     He  might 


The  Pendulum  47 

play  pool  at  McCloskey's  with  his  roistering  friends 
until  Aurora  dimmed  the  electric  bulbs  if  he  chose. 
The  hymeneal  strings  that  had  curbed  him  always 
when  the  Frogmore  flats  had  palled  upon  him  were 
loosened.     Katy  was  gone. 

John  Perkins  was  not  accustomed  to  analyzing  his 
emotions.  But  as  he  sat  in  his  Raty-bereft  10x12 
parlor  he  hit  unerringly  upon  the  keynote  of  his  dis- 
comfort. He  knew  now  that  Katy  was  necessary  to 
his  happiness.  His  feeling  for  her,  lulled  into  uncon- 
sciousness by  the  dull  round  of  domesticity,  had  been 
sharply  stirred  by  the  loss  of  her  presence.  Has  it 
not  been  dinned  into  us  by  proverb  and  sermon  and 
fable  that  we  never  prize  the  music  till  the  sweet- 
voiced  bird  has  flown  —  or  in  other  no  less  florid  and 
true  utterances? 

"  I'm  a  double-dyed  dub,"  mused  John  Perkins, 
"  the  way  I've  been  treating  Katy.  Off  every  night 
playing  pool  and  bumming  with  the  boys  instead  of 
staying  home  with  her.  The  poor  girl  here  all  alone 
with  nothing  to  amuse  her,  and  me  acting  that  way ! 
John  Perkins,  you're  the  worst  kind  of  a  shine.  I'm 
going  to  make  it  up  for  the  little  girl.  I'll  take  her 
out  and  let  her  see  some  amusement.  And  I'll  cut  out 
the  McCloskey  gang  right  from  this  minute." 

Yes,  there  was  the  city  roaring  outside  for  John 
Perkins  to  come  dance  in  the  train  of  Momus.  And 
at  McCloskey's  the  boys  were  knocking  the  balls  idly 


48  The  Trimmed  Lamp 

into  the  pockets  against  the  hour  for  the  nightly 
game.  But  no  primrose  way  nor  clicking  cue  could 
woo  the  remorseful  soul  of  Perkins  the  bereft.  The 
thing  that  was  his,  lightly  held  and  half  scorned,  had 
been  taken  away  from  him,  and  he  wanted  it.  Back- 
ward to  a  certain  man  named  Adam,  whom  the  cheru- 
bim bounced  from  the  orchard,  could  Perkins,  the 
remorseful,  trace  his  descent. 

Near  the  right  hand  of  John  Perkins  stood  a  chair. 
On  the  back  of  it  stood  Katy's  blue  shirtwaist.  It 
still  retained  something  of  her  contour.  Midway  of 
the  sleeves  were  fine,  individual  wrinkles  made  by  the 
movements  of  her  arms  in  working  for  his  comfort 
and  pleasure.  A  delicate  but  impelling  odor  of  blue- 
bells came  from  it.  John  took  it  and  looked  long 
and  soberly  at  the  unresponsive  grenadine.  Katy  had 
never  been  unresponsive.  Tears : —  yes,  tears  —  came 
into  John  Perkins's  eyes.  When  she  came  back  things 
would  be  different.  He  would  make  up  for  all  his 
neglect.     What  was  life  without  her? 

The  door  opened.  Katy  walked  in  carrying  a  little 
hand  satchel.     John  stared  at  her  stupidly. 

"  My !  Pm  glad  to  get  back,"  said  Katy.  "  Ma 
wasn't  sick  to  amount  to  anything.  Sam  was  at  the 
depot,  and  said  she  just  had  a  little  spell,  and  got 
all  right  soon  after  they  telegraphed.  So  I  took  the 
next  train  back.     I'm  just  dying  for  a  cup  of  coffee." 

Nobody  heard  the  click  and  the  rattle  of  the  cog- 


The  Pendulum  49 

wheels  as  the  third-floor  front  of  the  Frogmore  flats 
buzzed  its  machinery  back  into  the  Order  of  Things. 
A  band  slipped,  a  spring  was  touched,  the  gear  was 
adjusted  and  the  wheels  revolve  in  their  old  orbits. 

John  Perkins  looked  at  the  clock.  It  was  8.15. 
He  reached  for  his  hat  and  walked  to  the  door. 

"  Now,  where  are  you  going,  I'd  like  to  know,  John 
Perkins  ?  "  asked  Katy,  in  a  querulous  tone. 

"  Thought  I'd  drop  up  to  McCloskey's,"  said  John, 
"  and  play  a  game  or  two  of  pool  with  the  fellows." 


TWO  THANKSGIVING  DAY  GENTLEMEN 

THERE  is  one  day  that  is  ours.  There  is  one  day 
when  all  we  Americans  who  are  not  self-made  go  back 
to  the  old  home  to  eat  saleratus  biscuits  and  marvel 
how  much  nearer  to  the  porch  the  old  pump  looks 
than  it  used  to.  Bless  the  day.  President  Roosevelt 
gives  it  to  us.  We  hear  some  talk  of  the  Puritans,  but 
don't  just  remember  who  they  were.  Bet  we  can  lick 
'em,  anyhow,  if  they  try  to  land  again.  Plymouth 
Rocks  ?  Well,  that  sounds  more  familiar.  Lots  of  us 
have  had  to  come  down  to  hens  since  the  Turkey 
Trust  got  its  work  in.  But  somebody  in  Washington 
is  leaking  out  advance  information  to  'em  about  these 
Thanksgiving  proclamations. 

The  big  city  east  of  the  cranberry  bogs  has 
made  Thanksgiving  Day  an  institution.  The  last 
Thursday  in  November  is  the  only  day  in  the  year 
on  which  it  recognizes  the  part  of  America  lying 
across  the  ferries.  It  is  the  one  day  that  is  purely 
American.  Yes,  a  day  of  celebration,  exclusively 
American. 

And  now  for  the  story  which  is  to  prove  to  you 

that  we  have  traditions  on  this  side  of  the  ocean  that 

50 


Two  Thanksgiving  Day  Gentlemen     51 

are  becoming  older  at  a  much  rapider  rate  than  those 
of  England  are  —  thanks  to  our  git-up  and  enter- 
prise. 

Stuffy  Pete  took  his  seat  on  the  third  bench  to  the 
right  as  you  enter  Union  Square  from  the  east,  at  the 
walk  opposite  the  fountain.  Every  Thanksgiving 
Day  for  nine  years  he  had  taken  his  seat  there 
promptly  at  1  o'clock.  For  every  time  he  had  done 
so  things  had  happened  to  him  —  Charles  Dickensy 
things  that  swelled  his  waistcoat  above  his  heart,  and 
equally  on  the  other  side. 

But  to-day  Stuffy  Pete's  appearance  at  the  annual 
trysting  place  seemed  to  have  been  rather  the  result 
of  habit  than  of  the  yearly  hunger  which,  as  the 
philanthropists  seem  to  think,  afflicts  the  poor  at  such 
extended  intervals. 

Certainly  Pete  was  not  hungry.  He  had  just  come 
from  a  feast  that  had  left  him  of  his  powers  barely 
those  of  respiration  and  locomotion.  His  eyes  were 
like  two  pale  gooseberries  firmly  imbedded  in  a  swol- 
len and  gravy-smeared  mask  of  putty.  His  breath 
came  in  short  wheezes ;  a  senatorial  roll  of  adipose 
tissue  denied  a  fashionable  set  to  his  upturned  coat 
collar.  Buttons  that  had  been  sewed  upon  his  clothes 
by  kind  Salvation  fingers  a  week  before  flew  like  pop- 
corn, strewing  the  earth  around  him.  Ragged  he  was, 
with  a  split  shirt  front  open  to  the  wishbone ;  but  the 
November  breeze,  carrying  fine  snowflakes,  brought 


52  The  Trimmed  Lamp 

him  only  a  grateful  coolness.  For  Stuffy  Pete  was 
overcharged  with  the  caloric  produced  by  a  super- 
bountiful  dinner,  beginning  with  oysters  and  ending 
with  plum  pudding,  and  including  (it  seemed  to  him) 
all  the  roast  turkey  and  baked  potatoes  and  chicken 
salad  and  squash  pie  and  ice  cream  in  the  world. 
Wherefore  he  sat,  gorged,  and  gazed  upon  the  world 
with  after-dinner  contempt. 

The  meal  had  been  an  unexpected  one.  He  was 
passing  a  red  brick  mansion  near  the  beginning  of 
Fifth  avenue,  in  which  lived  two  old  ladies  of  ancient 
family  and  a  reverence  for  traditions.  They  even  de- 
nied the  existence  of  New  York,  and  believed  that 
Thanksgiving  Day  was  declared  solely  for  Washing- 
ton Square.  One  of  their  traditional  habits  was  to 
station  a  servant  at  the  postern  gate  with  orders  to 
admit  the  first  hungry  wayfarer  that  came  along 
after  the  hour  of  noon  had  struck,  and  banquet  him  to 
a  finish.  Stuffy  Pete  happened  to  pass  by  on  his  way 
to  the  park,  and  the  seneschals  gathered  him  in  and 
upheld  the  custom  of  the  castle. 

After  Stuffy  Pete  had  gazed  straight  before  him 
for  ten  minutes  he  was  conscious  of  a  desire  for  a 
more  varied  field  of  vision.  With  a  tremendous  effort 
he  moved  his  head  slowly  to  the  left.  And  then  his 
eyes  bulged  out  fearfully,  and  his  breath  ceased,  and 
the  rough-shod  ends  of  his  short  legs  wriggled  and 
rustled  on  the  gravel. 


Two  Thanksgiving  Day  Gentlemen    53 

For  the  Old  Gentleman  was  coming  across  Fourth 
avenue  toward  his  bench. 

Every  Thanksgiving  Day  for  nine  years  the  Old 
Gentleman  had  come  there  and  found  Stuffy  Pete  on 
his  bench.  That  was  a  thing  that  the  Old  Gentleman 
was  trying  to  make  a  tradition  of.  Every  Thanks- 
giving Day  for  nine  years  he  had  found  Stuffy  there, 
and  had  led  him  to  a  restaurant  and  watched  him  eat 
a  big  dinner.  They  do  those  things  in  England  un- 
consciously. But  this  is  a  young  country,  and  nine 
years  is  not  so  bad.  The  Old  Gentleman  was  a 
staunch  American  patriot,  and  considered  himself  a 
pioneer  in  American  tradition.  In  order  to  become 
picturesque  we  must  keep  on  doing  one  thing  for  a 
long  time  without  ever  letting  it  get  away  from  us. 
Something  like  collecting  the  weekly  dimes  in  indus- 
trial insurance.     Or  cleaning  the  streets. 

The  Old  Gentleman  moved,  straight  and  stately, 
toward  the  Institution  that  he  was  rearing.  Truly, 
the  annual  feeding  of  Stuffy  Pete  was  nothing 
national  in  its  character,  such  as  the  Magna  Charta 
or  jam  for  breakfast  was  in  England.  But  it  was  a 
step.  It  was  almost  feudal.  It  showed,  at  least, 
that  a  Custom  was  not  impossible  to  New  Y  —  ahem ! 
—  America. 

The  Old  Gentleman  was  thin  and  tall  and  sixty. 
He  was  dressed  all  in  black,  and  wore  the  old-fashioned 
kind  of  glasses  that  won't  stay  on  your  nose.     His 


54  The  Trimmed  Lamp 

hair  was  whiter  and  thinner  than  it  had  been  last 
year,  and  he  seemed  to  make  more  use  of  his  big, 
knobby  cane  with  the  crooked  handle. 

As  his  established  benefactor  came  up  Stuffy 
wheezed  and  shuddered  like  some  woman's  over-fat 
pug  when  a  street  dog  bristles  up  at  him.  He  would 
have  flown,  but  all  the  skill  of  Santos-Dumont  could 
not  have  separated  him  from  his  bench.  Well  had 
the  myrmidons  of  the  two  old  ladies  done  their  work. 

"  Good  morning,"  said  the  Old  Gentleman.  "  I  am 
glad  to  perceive  that  the  vicissitudes  of  another  year 
have  spared  you  to  move  in  health  about  the  beauti- 
ful world.  For  that  blessing  alone  this  day  of  thanks- 
giving is  well  proclaimed  to  each  of  us.  If  you  will 
come  with  me,  my  man,  I  will  provide  you  with  a 
dinner  that  should  make  your  physical  being  accord 
with  the  mental." 

That  is  what  the  Old  Gentleman  said  every  time. 
Every  Thanksgiving  Day  for  nine  years.  The  words 
themselves  almost  formed  an  Institution.  Nothing 
could  be  compared  with  them  except  the  Declaration 
of  Independence.  Always  before  they  had  been  music 
in  Stuffy 's  ears.  But  now  he  looked  up  at  the  Old 
Gentleman's  face  with  tearful  agony  in  his  own.  The 
fine  snow  almost  sizzled  when  it  fell  upon  his  perspir- 
ing brow.  But  the  Old  Gentleman  shivered  a  little 
and  turned  his  back  to  the  wind. 

Stuffy  had  always  wondered  why  the  Old  Gentleman 


Two  Thanksgiving  Day  Gentlemen    55 

spoke  his  speech  rather  sadly.  He  did  not  know  that 
it  was  because  he  was  wishing  every  time  that  he 
had  a  son  to  succeed  him.  A  son  who  would  come 
there  after  he  was  gone  —  a  son  who  would  stand 
proud  and  strong  before  some  subsequent  Stuffy,  and 
say :  "  In  memory  of  my  father."  Then  it  would 
be  an  Institution. 

But  the  Old  Gentleman  had  no  relatives.  He  lived 
in  rented  rooms  in  one  of  the  decayed  old  family 
brownstone  mansions  in  one  of  the  quiet  streets  east 
of  the  park.  In  the  winter  he  raised  fuchsias  in  a 
little  conservatory  the  size  of  a  steamer  trunk.  In 
the  spring  he  walked  in  the  Easter  parade.  In  the 
summer  he  lived  at  a  farmhouse  in  the  New  Jersey 
hills,  and  sat  in  a  wicker  armchair,  speaking  of  a  but- 
terfly, the  ornithoptera  amphrisius,  that  he  hoped  to 
find  some  day.  In  the  autumn  he  fed  Stuffy  a  dinner. 
These  were  the  Old  Gentleman's  occupations. 

Stuffy  Pete  looked  up  at  him  for  a  half  minute, 
stewing  and  helpless  in  his  own  self-pity.  The  Old 
Gentleman's  eyes  were  bright  with  the  giving-pleasure. 
His  face  was  getting  more  lined  each  year,  but  his 
little  black  necktie  was  in  as  jaunty  a  bow  as  ever,, 
and  his  linen  was  beautiful  and  white,  and  his  gray 
mustache  was  curled  carefully  at  the  ends.  And  then 
Stuffy  made  a  noise  that  sounded  like  peas  bubbling 
in  a  pot.  Speech  was  intended ;  and  as  the  Old  Gen- 
tleman had  heard  the  sounds  nine  times  before,  he 


56  The  Trimmed  Lamp 

rightly  construed  them  into  Stuffy's  old  formula  of 
acceptance. 

"  Thankee,  sir.  I'll  go  with  ye,  and  much  obliged. 
I'm  very  hungry,  sir." 

The  coma  of  repletion  had  not  prevented  from  en- 
tering Stuffy's  mind  the  conviction  that  he  was  the 
basis  of  an  Institution.  His  Thanksgiving  appetite 
was  not  his  own ;  it  belonged  by  all  the  sacred  rights 
of  established  custom,  if  not  by  the  actual  Statute  of 
Limitations,  to  this  kind  old  gentleman  who  had  pre- 
empted it.  True,  America  is  free;  but  in  order  to 
establish  tradition  some  one  must  be  a  repetend  —  a 
repeating  decimal.  The  heroes  are  not  all  heroes  of 
steel  and  gold.  See  one  here  that  wielded  only 
weapons  of  iron,  badly  silvered,  and  tin. 

The  Old  Gentleman  led  his  annual  protege  south- 
ward to  the  restaurant,  and  to  the  table  where  the 
feast  had  always  occurred.     They  were  recognized. 

"  Here  comes  de  old  guy,"  said  a  waiter,  "  dat 
blows  dat  same  bum  to  a  meal  every  Thanksgiving." 

The  Old  Gentleman  sat  across  the  table  glowing 
like  a  smoked  pearl  at  his  corner-stone  of  future  an- 
cient Tradition.  The  waiters  heaped  the  table  with 
holiday  food  —  and  Stuffy,  with  a  sigh  that  was  mis- 
taken for  hunger's  expression,  raised  knife  and  fork 
and  carved  for  himself  a  crown  of  imperishable  bay. 

No  more  valiant  hero  ever  fought  his  way  through 
the  ranks  of  an  enemy.     Turkey,  chops,  soups,  vege- 


Two  Thanksgiving  Day  Gentlemen     57 

tables,  pies,  disappeared  before  him  as  fast  as  they 
could  be  served.  Gorged  nearly  to  the  uttermost 
when  he  entered  the  restaurant,  the  smell  of  food  had 
almost  caused  him  to  lose  his  honor  as  a  gentleman, 
but  he  rallied  like  a  true  knight.  He  saw  the  look  of 
beneficent  happiness  on  the  Old  Gentleman's  face  — 
a  happier  look  than  even  the  fuchsias  and  the  orni- 
thoptera  amphrisius  had  ever  brought  to  it  —  and  he 
had  not  the  heart  to  see  it  wane. 

In  an  hour  Stuffy  leaned  back  with  a  battle  won. 

"  Thankee  kindly,  sir,"  he  puffed  like  a  leaky  steam 
pipe ;  "  thankee  kindly  for  a  hearty  meal." 

Then  he  arose  heavily  with  glazed  eyes  and  started 
toward  the  kitchen.  A  waiter  turned  him  about  like 
a  top,  and  pointed  him  toward  the  door.  The  Old 
Gentleman  carefully  counted  out  $1.30  in  silver 
change,  leaving  three  nickels  for  the  waiter. 

They  parted  as  they  did  each  year  at  the  door,  the 
Old  Gentleman  going  south,  Stuffy  north. 

Around  the  first  corner  Stuffy  turned,  and  stood 
for  one  minute.  Then  he  seemed  to  puff  out  his  rags 
an  an  owl  puffs  out  his  feathers,  and  fell  to  the  side- 
walk like  a  sunstricken  horse. 

When  the  ambulance  came  the  young  surgeon  and 
the  driver  cursed  softly  at  his  weight.  There  was  no 
smell  of  whiskey  to  justify  a  transfer  to  the  patrol 
wagon,  so  Stuffy  and  his  two  dinners  went  to  the  hos- 
pital.    There  they  stretched  him  on  a  bed  and  began 


58  The  Trimmed  Lamp 

to  test  him  for  strange  diseases,  with  the  hope  of 
getting  a  chance  at  some  problem  with  the  bare  steel. 

And  lo!  an  hour  later  another  ambulance  brought 
the  Old  Gentleman.  And  they  laid  him  on  another 
bed  and  spoke  of  appendicitis,  for  he  looked  good  for 
the  bill. 

But  pretty  soon  one  of  the  young  doctors  met  one 
of  the  young  nurses  whose  eyes  he  liked,  and  stopped 
to  chat  with  her  about  the  cases. 

"  That  nice  old  gentleman  over  there,  now,"  he 
said,  "  you  wouldn't  think  that  was  a  case  of  almost 
starvation.  Proud  old  family,  I  guess.  He  told 
me  he  hadn't  eaten  a  thing  for  three  days." 


THE  ASSESSOR  OF  SUCCESS 

Hastings  beauchamp  morley  sauntered 

across  Union  Square  with  a  pitying  look  at  the  hun- 
dreds that  lolled  upon  the  park  benches.  They  were 
a  motley  lot,  he  thought ;  the  men  with  stolid,  animal, 
unshaven  faces ;  the  women  wriggling  and  self-con- 
scious, twining  and  untwining  their  feet  that  hung 
four  inches  above  the  gravelled  walks. 

Were  I  Mr.  Carnegie  or  Mr.  Rockefeller  I  would 
put  a  few  millions  in  my  inside  pocket  and  make  an 
appointment  with  all  the  Park  Commissioners  (around 
the  corner,  if  necessary),  and  arrange  for  benches  in 
all  the  parks  of  the  world  low  enough  for  women  to 
sit  upon,  and  rest  their  feet  upon  the  ground.  After 
that  I  might  furnish  libraries  to  towns  that  would 
pay  for  'em,  or  build  sanitariums  for  crank  professors, 
and  call  'em  colleges,  if  I  wanted  to. 

Women's  rights  societies  have  been  laboring  for 
many  years  after  equality  with  man.  With  what  re- 
sult? When  they  sit  on  a  bench  they  must  twist  their 
ankles  together  and  uncomfortably  swing  their  high- 
est French  heels  clear  of  earthly  support.  Begin  at 
the  bottom,  ladies.     Get  your  feet  on  the  ground,  and 

then  rise  to  theories  of  mental  equality. 

59 


60  The  Trimmed  Lamp 

Hastings  Beauchamp  Morley  was  carefully  and 
neatly  dressed.  That  was  the  result  of  an  instinct 
due  to  his  birth  and  breeding.  It  is  denied  us  to  look 
further  into  a  man's  bosom  than  the  starch  on  his 
shirt  front;  so  it  is  left  to  us  only  to  recount  his 
walks  and  conversation. 

Morley  had  not  a  cent  in  his  pockets ;  but  he  smiled 
pityingly  at  a  hundred  grimy,  unfortunate  ones  who 
had  no  more,  and  who  would  have  no  more  when  the 
sun's  first  rays  yellowed  the  tall  paper-cutter  build- 
ing on  the  west  side  of  the  square.  But  Morley  would 
have  enough  by  then.  Sundown  had  seen  his  pockets 
empty  before ;  but  sunrise  had  always  seen  them  lined. 

First  he  went  to  the  house  of  a  clergyman  off  Madi- 
son avenue  and  presented  a  forged  letter  of  introduc- 
tion that  holily  purported  to  issue  from  a  pastorate 
in  Indiana.  This  netted  him  $5  when  backed  up  by 
a  realistic  romance  of  a  delayed  remittance. 

On  the  sidewalk,  twenty  steps  from  the  clergyman's 
door,  a  pale-faced,  fat  man  huskily  enveloped  him 
with  a  raised,  red  fist  and  the  voice  of  a  bell  buoy, 
demanding  payment  of  an  old  score. 

"  Why,  Bergman,  man,"  sang  Morley,  dulcetly,  "  is 
this  you?  I  was  just  on  my  way  up  to  your  place 
to  settle  up.  That  remittance  from  my  aunt  arrived 
only  this  morning.  Wrong  address  was  the  trouble. 
Come  up  to  the  corner  and  I'll  square  up.  Glad  to 
see  you.     Saves  me  a  walk." 


The  Assessor  of  Success  61 

Four  drinks  placated  the  emotional  Bergman. 
There  was  an  air  about  Morley  when  he  was  backed 
by  money  in  hand  that  would  have  stayed  off  a  call 
loan  at  Rothschilds'.  When  he  was  penniless  his 
bluff  was  pitched  half  a  tone  lower,  but  few  are  com- 
petent to  detect  the  difference  in  the  notes. 

"  You  gum  to  mine  blace  und  bay  me  to-morrow, 
Mr.  Morley,"  said  Bergman.  "  Oxcuse  me  dat  I  dun 
you  on  der  street.  But  I  haf  not  seen  you  in  dree 
mont\     Pros't ! " 

Morley  walked  away  with  a  crooked  smile  on  his 
pale,  smooth  face.  The  credulous,  drink-softened 
German  amused  him.  He  would  have  to  avoid  Twen- 
ty-ninth street  in  the  future.  He  had  not  been  aware 
that  Bergman  ever  went  home  by  that  route. 

At  the  door  of  a  darkened  house  two  squares  to 
the  north  Morley  knocked  with  a  peculiar  sequence 
of  raps.  The  door  opened  to  the  length  of  a  six- 
inch  chain,  and  the  pompous,  important  black  face 
of  an  African  guardian  imposed  itself  in  the  open- 
ing.    Morley  was  admitted. 

In  a  third-story  room,  in  an  atmosphere  opaque 
with  smoke,  he  hung  for  ten  minutes  above  a  roulette 
wheel.  Then  downstairs  he  crept,  and  was  out-sped 
by  the  important  negro,  jingling  in  his  pocket  the  40 
cents  in  silver  that  remained  to  him  of  his  five-dollar 
capital.     At  the  corner  he  lingered,  undecided. 

Across  the  street  was  a  drug  store,  well  lighted, 


62  The  Trimmed  Lamp 

sending  forth  gleams  from  the  German  silver  and 
crystal  of  its  soda  fountain  and  glasses.  Along  came 
a  youngster  of  five,  headed  for  the  dispensary,  step- 
ping high  with  the  consequence  of  a  big  errand,  pos- 
sibly one  to  which  his  advancing  age  had  earned  him 
promotion.  In  his  hand  he  clutched  something 
tightly,  publicly,  proudly,  conspicuously. 

Morley  stopped  him  with  his  winning  smile  and  soft 
speech. 

"Me?"  said  the  youngster.  "I'm  doin'  to  the 
drug  'tore  for  mamma.  She  dave  me  a  dollar  to  buy 
a  bottle  of  med'cin." 

"  Now,  now,  now ! "  said  Morley.  "  Such  a  big 
man  you  are  to  be  doing  errands  for  mamma.  I  must 
go  along  with  my  little  man  to  see  that  the  cars  don't 
run  over  him.  And  on  the  way  we'll  have  some  choco- 
lates.    Or  would  he  rather  have  lemon  drops  ?  " 

Morley  entered  the  drug  store  leading  the  child  by 
the  hand.  He  presented  the  prescription  that  had 
been  wrapped  around  the  money. 

On  his  face  was  a  smile,  predatory,  parental,  politic, 
profound. 

"  Aqua  pura,  one  pint,"  said  he  to  the  druggist. 
"  Sodium  chloride,  ten  grains.  Fiat  solution.  And 
don't  try  to  skin  me,  because  I  know  all  about  the 
number  of  gallons  of  H20  in  the  Croton  reservoir, 
and  I  always  use  the  other  ingredient  on  my  po- 
tatoes." 


The  Assessor  of  Success  63 

"  Fifteen  cents,"  said  the  druggist,  with  a  wink, 
after  he  had  compounded  the  order.  "  I  see  you  un- 
derstand pharmacy.     A  dollar  is  the  regular  price." 

"  To  gulls,"  said  Morley,  smilingly. 

He  settled  the  wrapped  bottle  carefully  in  the 
child's  arms  and  escorted  him  to  the  corner.  In  his 
own  pocket  he  dropped  the  85  cents  accruing  to  him 
by  virtue  of  his  chemical  knowledge. 

"  Look  out  for  the  cars,  sonny,"  he  said,  cheerfully, 
to  his  small  victim. 

Two  street  cars  suddenly  swooped  in  opposite  di- 
rections upon  the  youngster.  Morley  dashed  between 
them  and  pinned  the  infantile  messenger  by  the  neck, 
holding  him  in  safety.  Then  from  the  corner  of  his 
street  he  sent  him  on  his  way,  swindled,  happy,  and 
sticky  with  vile,  cheap  candy  from  the  Italian's  fruit 
stand. 

Morley  went  to  a  restaurant  and  ordered  a  sirloin 
and  a  pint  of  inexpensive  Chateau  Breuille.  He 
laughed  noiselessly,  but  so  genuinely  that  the  waiter 
ventured  to  premise  that  good  news  had  come  his  way. 

"  Why,  no,"  said  Morley,  who  seldom  held  conver- 
sation with  any  one.  "  It  is  not  that.  It  is  some- 
thing else  that  amuses  me.  Do  you  know  what  three 
divisions  of  people  are  easiest  to  over-reach  in  trans- 
actions of  all  kinds  ?  " 

"  Sure,"  said  the  waiter,  calculating  the  size  of  the 
tip  promised  by  the  careful  knot  of  Morley's  tie; 


64  The  Trimmed  Lamp 


a 


there's  the  buyers  from  the  dry  goods  stores  in  the 
South  during  August,  and  honeymooners  from  Staten 
Island,  and  "  — 

"  Wrong ! "  said  Morley,  chuckling  happily. 
"  The  answer  is  just  —  men,  women  and  children. 
The  world  —  well,  say  New  York  and  as  far  as  sum- 
mer boarders  can  swim  out  from  Long  Island  —  is 
full  of  greenhorns.  Two  minutes  longer  on  the 
broiler  would  have  made  this  steak  fit  to  be  eaten  by 
a  gentleman,  Francois." 

"  If  yez  t'inks  it's  on  de  bum,"  said  the  waiter, 
Oi'll  "— 

Morley  lifted  his  hand  in  protest  —  slightly  mar- 
tyred protest. 

"  It  will  do,"  he  said,  magnanimously.  "  And  now, 
green  Chartreuse,  frappe  and  a  demi-tasse." 

Morley  went  out  leisurely  and  stood  on  a  corner 
where  two  tradeful  arteries  of  the  city  cross.  With 
a  solitary  dime  in  his  pocket,  he  stood  on  the  curb 
watching  with  confident,  cynical,  smiling  eyes  the  tides 
of  people  that  flowed  past  him.  Into  that  stream  he 
must  cast  his  net  and  draw  fish  for  his  further  sus- 
tenance and  need.  Good  Izaak  Walton  had  not  the 
half  of  his  self-reliance  and  bait-lore. 

A  joyful  party  of  four  —  two  women  and  two  men 
—  fell  upon  him  with  cries  of  delight.  There  was  a 
dinner  party  on  —  where  had  he  been  for  a  fortnight 
past  ?  —  what  luck  to  thus  run  upon  him !     They  sur- 


The  Assessor  of  Success  65 

rounded  and  engulfed  him  —  he  must  join  them  — tra 
la  la  —  and  the  rest. 

One  with  a  white  hat  plume  curving  to  the  shoulder 
touched  his  sleeve,  and  cast  at  the  others  a  triumphant 
look  that  said:  "  See  what  I  can  do  with  him?  "  and 
added  her  queen's  command  to  the  invitations. 

"  I  leave  you  to  imagine,"  said  Morley,  patheti- 
cally, "  how  it  desolates  me  to  forego  the  pleasure. 
But  my  friend  Carruthers,  of  the  New  York  Yacht 
Club,  is  to  pick  me  up  here  in  his  motor  car  at  8." 

The  white  plume  tossed,  and  the  quartet  danced 
like  midges  around  an  arc  light  down  the  frolicsome 
way. 

Morley  stood,  turning  over  and  over  the  dime  in 
his  pocket  and  laughing  gleefully  to  himself. 

"  '  Front,'  "  he  chanted  under  his  breath ;  "  '  front ' 
does  it.  It  is  trumps  in  the  game.  How  they  take 
it  in !  Men,  women  and  children  —  forgeries,  water- 
and-salt  lies  —  how  they  all  take  it  in !  " 

An  old  man  with  an  ill-fitting  suit,  a  straggling 
gray  beard  and  a  corpulent  umbrella  hopped  from  the 
conglomeration  of  cabs  and  street  cars  to  the  sidewalk 
at  Morley's  side. 

"  Stranger,"  said  he,  "  excuse  me  for  troubling  you, 
but  do  you  know  anybody  in  this  here  town  named 
Solomon  Smothers?  He's  my  son,  and  I've  come 
down  from  Ellenville  to  visit  him.  Be  darned  if  I 
know  what  I  done  with  his  street  and  number." 


66  The  Trimmed  Lamp 

"  I  do  not  sir,"  said  Morley,  half  closing  his  eyes 
to  veil  the  joy  in  them.  "You  had  better  apply  to 
the  police." 

"  The  police !  "  said  the  old  man.  "  I  ain't  done 
nothin'  to  call  in  the  police  about.  I  just  come 
down  to  see  Ben.  He  lives  in  a  five-story  house,  he 
writes  me.  If  you  know  anybody  by  that  name  and 
could  "  — 

"  I  told  you  I  did  not,"  said  Morley,  coldly.  "  I 
know  no  one  by  the  name  of  Smithers,  and  I  advise 
you  to  "  — 

"  Smothers  not  Smithers,"  interrupted  the  old  man 
hopefully.  "  A  heavy-sot  man,  sandy  complected, 
about  twenty-nine,  two  front  teeth  out,  about  five 
foot "  — 

"Oh,  « Smothers!'"  exclaimed  Morley.  "Sol 
Smothers?  Why,  he  lives  in  the  next  house  to  me. 
I  thought  you  said  '  Smithers.'  " 

Morley  looked  at  his  watch.  You  must  have  a 
watch.  You  can  do  it  for  a  dollar.  Better  go  hun- 
gry than  forego  a  gunmetal  or  the  ninety-eight-cent 
one  that  the  railroads  —  according  to  these  watch- 
makers —  are  run  by. 

"  The  Bishop  of  Long  Island,"  said  Morley,  "  was 
to  meet  me  here  at  8  to  dine  with  me  at  the  King- 
fishers' Club.  But  I  can't  leave  the  father  of  my 
friend  Sol  Smothers  alone  on  the  street.  By  St. 
Swithin,  Mr.  Smothers,  we  Wall  street  men  have  to 


The  Assessor  of  Success  67] 

work!  Tired  is  no  name  for  it!  I  was  about  to 
step  across  to  the  other  corner  and  have  a  glass  of 
ginger  ale  with  a  dash  of  sherry  when  you  approached 
me.  You  must  let  me  take  you  to  Sol's  house,  Mr. 
Smothers.  But  before  we  take  the  car  I  hope  you 
will  join  me  in  "  — 

An  hour  later  Morley  seated  himself  on  the  end 
of  a  quiet  bench  in  Madison  Square,  with  a  twenty- 
five-cent  cigar  between  his  lips  and  $140  in  deeply 
creased  bills  in  his  inside  pocket.  Content,  light- 
hearted,  ironical,  keenly  philosophic,  he  watched  the 
moon  drifting  in  and  out  amidst  a  maze  of  flying 
clouds.  An  old,  ragged  man  with  a  low-bowed  head 
sat  at  the  other  end  of  the  bench. 

Presently  the  old  man  stirred  and  looked  at  his 
bench  companion.  In  Morley's  appearance  he  seemed 
to  recognize  something  superior  to  the  usual  nightly 
occupants  of  the  benches. 

"  Kind  sir,"  he  whined,  "  if  you  could  spare  a  dime 
or  even  a  few  pennies  to  one  who  "  — 

Morley  cut  short  his  stereotyped  appeal  by  throw- 
ing him  a  dollar. 

"  God  bless  you !  "  said  the  old  man.  "  I've  been 
trying  to  find  work  for  "  — 

Work!"  echoed  Morley  with  his  ringing  laugh. 

You  are  a  fool,  my  friend.  The  world  is  a  rock 
to  you,  no  doubt;  but  you  must  be  an  Aaron  and 
smite  it  with  your   rod.     Then  things  better  than 


68  The  Trimmed  Lamp 

water  will  gush  out  of  it  for  you.  That  is  what  the 
world  is  for.  It  gives  to  me  whatever  I  want  from 
it." 

"  God  has  blessed  you,"  said  the  old  man.  "  It  is 
only  work  that  I  have  known.  And  now  I  can  get  no 
more." 

"  I  must  go  home,"  said  Morley,  rising  and  button- 
ing his  coat.  "  I  stopped  here  only  for  a  smoke.  I 
hope  you  may  find  work." 

"  May  your  kindness  be  rewarded  this  night,"  said 
the  old  man. 

"  Oh,"  said  Morley,  "  you  have  your  wish  already. 
I  am  satisfied.  I  think  good  luck  follows  me  like  a 
dog.  I  am  for  yonder  bright  hotel  across  the  square 
for  the  night.  And  what  a  moon  that  is  lighting 
up  the  city  to-night.  I  think  no  one  enjoys  the  moon- 
light and  such  little  things  as  I  do.  Well,  a  good- 
night to  you." 

Morley  walked  to  the  corner  where  he  would  cross 
to  his  hotel.  He  blew  slow  streamers  of  smoke  from 
his  cigar  heavenward.  A  policeman  passing  saluted 
to  his  benign  nod.     What  a  fine  moon  it  was. 

The  clock  struck  nine  as  a  girl  just  entering 
womanhood  stopped  on  the  corner  waiting  for  the 
approaching  car.  She  was  hurrying  as  if  homeward 
from  employment  or  delay.  Her  eyes  were  clear  and 
pure,  she  was  dressed  in  simple  white,  she  looked  ea- 
gerly for  the  car  and  neither  to  the  right  nor  the  left. 


The  Assessor  of  Success  69 

Morley  knew  her.  Eight  years  before  he  had  sat 
on  the  same  bench  with  her  at  school.  There  had 
been  no  sentiment  between  them  —  nothing  but  the 
friendship  of  innocent  days. 

But  he  turned  down  the  side  street  to  a  quiet  spot 
and  laid  his  suddenly  burning  face  against  the  cool 
iron  of  a  lamp-post,  and  said  dully : 

"  God !  I  wish  I  could  die." 


THE  BUYER  FROM  CACTUS  CITY 

IT  is  well  that  hay  fever  and  colds  do  not  obtain  in 
the  healthful  vicinity  of  Cactus  City,  Texas,  for 
the  dry  goods  emporium  of  Navarro  &  Piatt,  situated 
there,  is  not  to  be  sneezed  at. 

Twenty  thousand  people  in  Cactus  City  scatter 
their  silver  coin  with  liberal  hands  for  the  things  that 
their  hearts  desire.  The  bulk  of  this  semiprecious 
metal  goes  to  Navarro  &  Piatt.  Their  huge  brick 
building  covers  enough  ground  to  graze  a  dozen  head 
of  sheep.  You  can  buy  of  them  a  rattlesnake-skin 
necktie,  an  automobile  or  an  eighty-five  dollar,  latest 
style,  ladies'  tan  coat  in  twenty  different  shades. 
Navarro  &  Piatt  first  introduced  pennies  west  of  the 
Colorado  River.  They  had  been  ranchmen  with  busi- 
ness heads,  who  saw  that  the  world  did  not  necessarily 
have  to  cease  its  revolutions  after  free  grass  went  out. 

Every  spring,  Navarro,  senior  partner,  fifty-five, 

half  Spanish,  cosmopolitan,  able,  polished,  had  "  gone 

on  "  to  New  York  to  buy  goods.     This  year  he  shied 

at  taking  up  the  long  trail.     He  was  undoubtedly 

growing  older ;  and  he  looked  at  his  watch  several 

times  a  day  before  the  hour  came  for  his  siesta. 

70 


The  Buyer  From  Cactus  City         71 


a 


John,"  he  said,  to  his  junior  partner,  "  you  shall 
go  on  this  year  to  buy  the  goods." 

Piatt  looked  tired. 

"  I'm  told,"  said  he,  "  that  New  York  is  a  plumb 
dead  town ;  but  I'll  go.  I  can  take  a  whirl  in  San 
Antone  for  a  few  days  on  my  way  and  have  some 
fun." 

Two  weeks  later  a  man  in  a  Texas  full  dress  suit  — 
black  frock  coat,  broad-brimmed  soft  white  hat,  and 
lay-down  collar  3-4  inch  high,  with  black,  wrought 
iron  necktie  —  entered  the  wholesale  cloak  and  suit 
establishment  of  Zizzbaum  &  Son,  on  lower  Broad- 
way. 

Old  Zizzbaum  had  the  eye  of  an  osprey,  the  mem- 
ory of  an  elephant  and  a  mind  that  unfolded  from 
him  in  three  movements  like  the  puzzle  of  the  carpen- 
ter's rule.  He  rolled  to  the  front  like  a  brunette 
polar  bear,  and  shook  Piatt's  hand. 

"  And  how  is  the  good  Mr.  Navarro  in  Texas  ?  "  he 
said.  "  The  trip  was  too  long  for  him  this  year,  so  ? 
We  welcome  Mr.  Piatt  instead." 

"  A  bull's  eye,"  said  Piatt,  "  and  I'd  give  forty 
acres  of  unirrigated  Pecos  County  land  to  know  how 
you  did  it." 

"  I  knew,"  grinned  Zizzbaum,  "  just  as  I  know  that 
the  rainfall  in  El  Paso  for  the  year  was  28.5  inches,  or 
an  increase  of  15  inches,  and  that  therefore  Navarro 
&  Piatt  will  buy  a  $15,000  stock  of  suits  this  spring 


72  The  Trimmed  Lamp 

instead  of  $10,000,  as  in  a  dry  year.  But  that  will 
be  to-morrow.  There  is  first  a  cigar  in  my  private 
office  that  will  remove  from  your  mouth  the  taste  of 
the  ones  you  smuggle  across  the  Rio  Grande  and 
like  —  because  they  are  smuggled." 

It  was  late  in  the  afternoon  and  business  for  the  day 
had  ended,  Zizzbaum  left  Piatt  with  a  half-smoked 
cigar,  and  came  out  of  the  private  office  to  Son,  who 
was  arranging  his  diamond  scarfpin  before  a  mirror, 
ready  to  leave. 

"  Abey,"  he  said,  "  you  will  have  to  take  Mr.  Piatt 
around  to-night  and  show  him  things.  They  are  cus- 
tomers for  ten  years.  Mr.  Navarro  and  I  we  played 
chess  every  moment  of  spare  time  when  he  came. 
That  is  good,  but  Mr.  Piatt  is  a  young  man  and  this 
is  his  first  visit  to  New  York.  He  should  amuse 
easily." 

"  All  right,"  said  Abey,  screwing  the  guard  tightly 
on  his  pin.  "  I'll  take  him  on.  After  he's  seen  the 
Flatiron  and  the  head  waiter  at  the  Hotel  Astor  and 
heard  the  phonograph  play  *  Under  the  Old  Apple 
Tree '  it'll  be  half  past  ten,  and  Mr.  Texas  will  be 
ready  to  roll  up  in  his  blanket.  I've  got  a  supper 
engagement  at  11.30,  but  he'll  be  all  to  the  Mrs. 
Winslow  before  then." 

The  next  morning  at  10  Piatt  walked  into  the  store 
ready  to  do  business.  He  had  a  bunch  of  hyacinths 
pinned  on  his  lapel.     Zizzbaum  himself  waited  on  him. 


The  Buyer  From  Cactus  City         73 

Navarro  &  Piatt  were  good  customers,  and  never  failed 
to  take  their  discount  for  cash. 

"  And  what  did  you  think  of  our  little  town  ?  " 
asked  Zizzbaum,  with  the  fatuous  smile  of  the  Manhat- 
tanite. 

"  I  shouldn't  care  to  live  in  it,"  said  the  Texan. 
"  Your  son  and  I  knocked  around  quite  a  little  last 
night.  You've  got  good  water,  but  Cactus  City  is 
better  lit  up." 

"  We've  got  a  few  lights  on  Broadway,  don't  you 
think,  Mr.  Piatt?" 

"  And  a  good  many  shadows,"  said  Piatt.  "  I 
think  I  like  your  horses  best.  I  haven't  seen  a  crow- 
bait  since  I've  been  in  town." 

Zizzbaum  led  him  upstairs  to  show  the  samples  of 
suits. 

"  Ask  Miss  Asher  to  come,"  he  said  to  a  clerk. 

Miss  Asher  came,  and  Piatt,  of  Navarro  &  Piatt, 
felt  for  the  first  time  the  wonderful  bright  light  of 
romance  and  glory  descend  upon  him.  He  stood  still 
as  a  granite  cliff  above  the  canon  of  the  Colorado, 
with  his  wide-open  eyes  fixed  upon  her.  She  noticed 
his  look  and  flushed  a  little,  which  was  contrary  to 
her  custom. 

Miss  Asher  was  the  crack  model  of  Zizzbaum  & 
Son.  She  was  of  the  blond  type  known  as  "  medium," 
and  her  measurements  even  went  the  required  38-25-42 
standard  a  little  better.     She  had  been  at  Zizzbaum's 


74  The  Trimmed  Lamp 

two  years,  and  knew  her  business.  Her  eye  was 
bright,  but  cool ;  and  had  she  chosen  to  match  her  gaze 
against  the  optic  of  the  famed  basilisk,  that  fabulous 
monster's  gaze  would  have  wavered  and  softened  first. 
Incidentally,  she  knew  buyers. 

"  Now,  Mr.  Piatt,"  said  Zizzbaum,  "  I  want  you  to 
see  these  princess  gowns  in  the  light  shades.  They 
will  be  the  thing  in  your  climate.  This  first,  if  you 
please,  Miss  Asher." 

Swiftly  in  and  out  of  the  dressing-room  the  prize 
model  flew,  each  time  wearing  a  new  costume  and  look- 
ing more  stunning  with  every  change.  She  posed 
with  absolute  self-possession  before  the  stricken  buyer, 
who  stood,  tongue-tied  and  motionless,  while  Zizzbaum 
orated  oilily  of  the  styles.  On  the  model's  face  was 
her  faint,  impersonal  professional  smile  that  seemed 
to  cover  something  like  weariness  or  contempt. 

When  the  display  was  over  Piatt  seemed  to  hesi- 
tate. Zizzbaum  was  a  little  anxious,  thinking  that 
his  customer  might  be  inclined  to  try  elsewhere.  But 
Piatt  was  only  looking  over  in  his  mind  the  best  build- 
ing sites  in  Cactus  City,  trying  to  select  one  on  which 
to  build  a  house  for  his  wife-to-be  —  who  was  just 
then  in  the  dressing-room  taking  off  an  evening  gown 
of  lavender  and  tulle. 

"  Take  your  time,  Mr.  Piatt,"  said  Zizzbaum. 
"  Think  it  over  to-night.  You  won't  find  anybody 
else  meet  our  prices  on  goods  like  these.     I'm  afraid 


The  Buyer  From  Cactus  City        75 

you're  having  a  dull  time  in  New  York,  Mr.  Piatt.  A 
young  man  like  you  —  of  course,  you  miss  the  society 
of  the  ladies.  Wouldn't  you  like  a  nice  young  lady  to 
take  out  to  dinner  this  evening?  Miss  Asher,  now,  is 
a  very  nice  young  lady ;  she  will  make  it  agreeable  for 
you." 

"  Why,  she  doesn't  know  me,"  said  Piatt,  wonder- 
ingly.  "  She  doesn't  know  anything  about  me. 
Would  she  go?     I'm  not  acquainted  with  her." 

"Would  she  go?"  repeated  Zizzbaum,  with  up- 
lifted eyebrows.  "  Sure,  she  would  go.  I  will  intro- 
duce you.     Sure,  she  would  go." 

He  called  Miss  Asher  loudly. 

She  came,  calm  and  slightly  contemptuous,  in  her 
white  shirt  waist  and  plain  black  skirt. 

"  Mr.  Piatt  would  like  the  pleasure  of  your  com- 
pany to  dinner  this  evening,"  said  Zizzbaum,  walking 
away. 

"  Sure,"  said  Miss  Asher,  looking  at  the  ceiling. 
"  I'd  be  much  pleased.  Nine-eleven  West  Twentieth 
street.     What  time  ?  " 

"  Say  seven  o'clock." 

"  All  right,  but  please  don't  come  ahead  of  time. 
I  room  with  a  school  teacher,  and  she  doesn't  allow 
any  gentlemen  to  call  in  the  room.  There  isn't  any 
parlor,  so  you'll  have  to  wait  in  the  hall.  I'll  be 
ready." 

At  half  past  seven  Piatt  and  Miss  Asher  sat  at  a 


76  The  Trimmed  Lamp 

table  in  a  Broadway  restaurant.  She  was  dressed 
in  a  plain,  filmy  black.  Piatt  didn't  know  that  it 
was  all  a  part  of  her  day's  work. 

With  the  unobtrusive  aid  of  a  good  waiter  he 
managed  to  order  a  respectable  dinner,  minus  the 
usual  Broadway  preliminaries. 

Miss  Asher  flashed  upon  him  a  dazzling  smile. 

"  Mayn't  I  have  something  to  drink?  "  she  asked. 

"Why,  certainly,"  said  Piatt.  "Anything  you 
want." 

"  A  dry  Martini,"  she  said  to  the  waiter. 

When  it  was  brought  and  set  before  her  Piatt 
reached  over  and  took  it  away. 

"  What  is  this?  "  he  asked. 

"  A  cocktail,  of  course." 

"  I  thought  it  was  some  kind  of  tea  you  ordered. 
This  is  liquor.  You  can't  drink  this.  What  is  your 
first  name  ?  " 

"  To  my  intimate  friends,"  said  Miss  Asher,  freez- 
ingly,  "  it  is  '  Helen.'  " 

Listen,  Helen,"  said  Piatt,  leaning  over  the  table. 
For  many  years  every  time  the  spring  flowers 
blossomed  out  on  the  prairies  I  got  to  thinking  of 
somebody  that  I'd  never  seen  or  heard  of.  I  knew  it 
was  you  the  minute  I  saw  you  yesterday.  I'm  going 
back  home  to-morrow,  and  you're  going  with  me.  I 
know  it,  for  I  saw  it  in  your  eyes  when  you  first  looked 
at  me.     You  needn't  kick,  for  you've  got  to  fall  into 


a 


The  Buyer  From  Cactus  City         77 

line.  Here's  a  little  trick  I  picked  out  for  you  on  my 
way  over." 

He  flicked  a  two-carat  diamond  solitaire  ring  across 
the  table.  Miss  Asher  flipped  it  back  to  him  with  her 
fork. 

"  Don't  get  fresh,"  she  said,  severely. 

"  I'm  worth  a  hundred  thousand  dollars,"  said 
Piatt.  "  I'll  build  you  the  finest  house  in  West 
Texas." 

"  You  can't  buy  me,  Mr.  Buyer,"  said  Miss  Asher, 
"  if  you  had  a  hundred  million.  I  didn't  think  I'd 
have  to  call  you  down.  You  didn't  look  like  the 
others  to  me  at  first,  but  I  see  you're  all  alike." 

"All  who?"  asked  Piatt. 

"  All  you  buyers.  You  think  because  we  girls  have 
to  go  out  to  dinner  with  you  or  lose  our  jobs  that 
you're  privileged  to  say  what  you  please.  Well,  for- 
get it.  I  thought  you  were  different  from  the  others, 
but  I  see  I  was  mistaken." 

Piatt  struck  his  fingers  on  the  table  with  a  gesture 
of  sudden,  illuminating  satisfaction. 

"  I've  got  it !  "  he  exclaimed,  almost  hilariously  — 
"  the  Nicholson  place,  over  on  the  north  side.  There's 
a  big  grove  of  live  oaks  and  a  natural  lake.  The  old 
house  can  be  pulled  down  and  the  new  one  set  further 
back." 

"  Put  out  your  pipe,"  said  Miss  Asher.  "  I'm 
sorry  to  wake  you  up,  but  you  fellows  might  as  well 


78  The  Trimmed  Lamp 

get  wise,  once  for  all,  to  where  you  stand.  I'm  sup- 
posed to  go  to  dinner  with  you  and  help  jolly  you 
along  so  you'll  trade  with  old  Zizzy,  but  don't  expect 
to  find  me  in  any  of  the  suits  you  buy." 

"  Do  you  mean  to  tell  me,"  said  Piatt,  "  that  you 
go  out  this  way  with  customers,  and  they  all  —  they 
all  talk  to  you  like  I  have  ?  " 

"  They  all  make  plays,"  said  Miss  Asher.  "  But  I 
must  say  that  you've  got  'em  beat  in  one  respect. 
They  generally  talk  diamonds,  while  you've  actually 
dug  one  up." 

"  How  long  have  you  been  working,  Helen?  " 

"  Got  my  name  pat,  haven't  you  ?  I've  been  sup- 
porting myself  for  eight  years.  I  was  a  cash  girl 
and  a  wrapper  and  then  a  shop  girl  until  I  was  grown, 
and  then  I  got  to  be  a  suit  model.  Mr.  Texas  Man, 
don't  you  think  a  little  wine  would  make  this  dinner 
a  little  less  dry?  " 

"  You're  not  going  to  drink  wine  any  more,  dear. 

It's  awful  to  think  how I'll  come  to  the  store 

to-morrow  and  get  you.  I  want  you  to  pick  out  an 
automobile  before  we  leave.  That's  all  we  need  to 
buy  here." 

"  Oh,  cut  that  out.  If  you  knew  how  sick  I  am  of 
hearing  such  talk." 

After  the  dinner  they  walked  down  Broadway  and 
came  upon  Diana's  little  wooded  park.  The  trees 
caught  Piatt's  eye  at  once,  and  he  must  turn  along 


The  Buyer  From  Cactus  City         79 

under  the  winding  walk  beneath  them.  The  lights 
fhone  upon  two  bright  tears  in  the  model's  eyes. 

"  I  don't  like  that,"  said  Piatt.  "  What's  the  mat- 
ter? " 

"  Don't  you  mind,"  said  Miss  Asher.  "  Well,  it's 
because  —  well,  I  didn't  think  you  were  that  kind  when 
I  first  saw  you.  But  you  are  all  like.  And  now  will 
you  take  me  home,  or  will  I  have  to  call  a  cop  ?  " 

Piatt  took  her  to  the  door  of  her  boarding-house. 
They  stood  for  a  minute  in  the  vestibule.  She  looked 
at  him  with  such  scorn  in  her  eyes  that  even  his  heart 
of  oak  began  to  waver.  His  arm  was  half  way  around 
her  waist,  when  she  struck  him  a  stinging  blow  on  the 
face  with  her  open  hand. 

As  he  stepped  back  a  ring  fell  from  somewhere  and 
bounded  on  the  tiled  floor.  Piatt  groped  for  it  and 
found  it. 

"  Now,  take  your  useless  diamond  and  go,  Mr. 
Buyer,"  she  said. 

"  This  was  the  other  one  —  the  wedding  ring,"  said 
the  Texan,  holding  the  smooth  gold  band  on  the  palm 
of  his  hand. 

Miss  Asher's  eyes  blazed  upon  him  in  the  half  dark- 
ness. 

"  Was  that  what  you  meant  ?  —  did  you  "  — 

Somebody  opened  the  door  from  inside  the  house. 

"  Good-night,"  said  Piatt.  "  I'll  see  you  at  the 
store  to-morrow." 


80  The  Trimmed  Lamp 

Miss  Asher  ran  up  to  her  room  and  shook  the  school 
teacher  until  she  sat  up  in  bed  ready  to  scream 
"  Fire !  " 

"  Where  is  it?  "  she  cried. 

"  That's  what  I  want  to  know,"  said  the  model. 
"  You've  studied  geography,  Emma,  and  you  ought 
to  know.  Where  is  a  town  called  Cac  —  Cac  — 
Carac  —  Caracas  City,  I  think  they  called  it?" 

"  How  dare  you  wake  me  up  for  that  ?  "  said  the 
school  teacher.     "  Caracas  is  in  Venezuela,  of  course." 

"What's  it  like?" 

"  Why,  it's  principally  earthquakes  and  negroes 
and  monkeys  and  malarial  fever  and  volcanoes." 

"  I  don't  care,"  said  Miss  Asher,  blithely ;  "  I'm 
going  there  to-morrow. 


» 


THE  BADGE  OF  POLICEMAN  O'ROON 

IT  cannot  be  denied  that  men  and  women  have 
looked  upon  one  another  for  the  first  time  and  be- 
come instantly  enamored.  It  is  a  risky  process,  this 
love  at  first  sight,  before  she  has  seen  him  in  Brad- 
street  or  he  has  seen  her  in  curl  papers.  But  these 
things  do  happen ;  and  one  instance  must  form  a 
theme  for  this  story  —  though  not,  thank  Heaven,  to 
the  overshadowing  of  more  vital  and  important  sub- 
jects, such  as  drink,  policemen,  horses  and  earldoms. 

During  a  certain  war  a  troop  calling  itself  the  Gen- 
tle Riders  rode  into  history  and  one  or  two  ambus- 
cades. The  Gentle  Riders  were  recruited  from  the 
aristocracy  of  the  wild  men  of  the  West  and  the  wild 
men  of  the  aristocracy  of  the  East.  In  khaki  there 
is  little  telling  them  one  from  another,  so  they  became 
good  friends  and  comrades  all  around. 

Ellsworth  Remsen,  whose  old  Knickerbocker  descent 

atoned  for  his  modest  rating  at  only  ten  millions,  ate 

his  canned  beef  gayly  by  the  campfires  of  the  Gentle 

Riders.     The  war  was  a  great  lark  to  him,  so  that  he 

scarcely  regretted  polo  and  planked  shad. 

One  of  the  troopers  was  a  well  set  up,  affable,  cool 

81 


82  The  Trimmed  Lamp 

young  man,  who  called  himself  O'Roon.  To  this 
young  man  Remsen  took  an  especial  liking.  The  two 
rode  side  by  side  during  the  famous  mooted  up-hill 
charge  that  was  disputed  so  hotly  at  the  time  by  the 
Spaniards  and  afterward  by  the  Democrats. 

After  the  war  Remsen  came  back  to  his  polo  and 
shad.  One  day  a  well  set  up,  affable,  cool  young  man 
disturbed  him  at  his  club,  and  he  and  O'Roon  were 
soon  pounding  each  other  and  exchanging  opprobrious 
epithets  after  the  manner  of  long-lost  friends. 
O'Roon  looked  seedy  and  out  of  luck  and  perfectly 
contented.  But  it  seemed  that  his  content  was  only 
apparent. 

"  Get  me  a  job,  Remsen,"  he  said.  "  I've  just 
handed  a  barber  my  last  shilling." 

"  No  trouble  at  all,"  said  Remsen.  "  I  know  a  lot 
of  men  who  have  banks  and  stores  and  things  down- 
town.    Any  particular  line  you  fancy?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  O'Roon,  with  a  look  of  interest.  "  I 
took  a  walk  in  your  Central  Park  this  morning.  I'd 
like  to  be  one  of  those  bobbies  on  horseback.  That 
would  be  about  the  ticket.  Besides,  it's  the  only  thing 
I  could  do.  I  can  ride  a  little  and  the  fresh  air  suits 
me.     Think  you  could  land  that  for  me  ?  " 

Remsen  was  sure  that  he  could.  And  in  a  very 
short  time  he  did.  And  they  who  were  not  above  look- 
ing at  mounted  policemen  might  have  seen  a  well  set 
up,  affable,  cool  young  man  on  a  prancing  chestnut 


The  Badge  of  Policeman  O'Roon      83 

steed  attending  to  his  duties  along  the  driveways  of 
the  park. 

And  now  at  the  extreme  risk  of  wearying  old  gen- 
tlemen who  carry  leather  fob  chains,  and  elderly 
ladies  who  —  but  no !  grandmother  herself  yet  thrills 
at  foolish,  immortal  Romeo  —  there  must  be  a  hint  of 
love  at  first  sight. 

It  came  just  as  Remsen  was  strolling  into  Fifth 
avenue  from  his  club  a  few  doors  away. 

A  motor  car  was  creeping  along  foot  by  foot,  im- 
peded by  a  freshet  of  vehicles  that  filled  the  street. 
In  the  car  was  a  chauffeur  and  an  old  gentleman  with 
snowy  side  whiskers  and  a  Scotch  plaid  cap  which 
could  not  be  worn  while  automobiling  except  by  a  per- 
sonage. Not  even  a  wine  agent  would  dare  to  do  it. 
But  these  two  were  of  no  consequence  —  except,  per- 
haps, for  the  guiding  of  the  machine  and  the  paying 
for  it.  At  the  old  gentleman's  side  sat  a  young  lady 
more  beautiful  than  pomegranate  blossoms,  more  ex- 
quisite than  the  first  quarter  moon  viewed  at  twilight 
through  the  tops  of  oleanders.  Remsen  saw  her  and 
knew  his  fate.  He  could  have  flung  himself  under 
the  very  wheels  that  conveyed  her,  but  he  knew  that 
would  be  the  last  means  of  attracting  the  attention 
of  those  who  ride  in  motor  cars.  Slowly  the  auto 
passed,  and,  if  we  place  the  poets  above  the  autoists, 
carried  the  heart  of  Remsen  with  it.  Here  was  a 
large  city   of  millions,   and  many  women  who  at   a 


84  The  Trimmed  Lamp 

certain  distance  appear  to  resemble  pomegranate 
blossoms.  Yet  he  hoped  to  see  her  again;  for  each 
one  fancies  that  his  romance  has  its  own  tutelary 
guardian  and  divinity. 

Luckily  for  Remsen's  peace  of  mind  there  came  a 
diversion  in  the  guise  of  a  reunion  of  the  Gentle  Riders 
of  the  city.  There  were  not  many  of  them  —  per- 
haps a  score  —  and  there  was  wassail,  and  things  to 
eat,  and  speeches  and  the  Spaniard  was  bearded  again 
in  recapitulation.  And  when  daylight  threatened 
them  the  survivors  prepared  to  depart.  But  some 
remained  upon  the  battlefield.  One  of  these  was 
Trooper  O'Roon,  who  was  not  seasoned  to  potent 
liquids.  His  legs  declined  to  fulfil  the  obligations 
they  had  sworn  to  the  police  department. 

"  I'm  stewed,  Remsen,"  said  O'Roon  to  his  friend. 
"  Why  do  they  built  hotels  that  go  round  and  round 
like  Catherine  wheels?  They'll  take  away  my  shield 
and  break  me.  I  can  think  and  talk  con-con-consec- 
sec-secutively,  but  I  s-s-stammer  with  my  feet.  I've 
got  to  go  on  duty  in  three  hours.  The  jig  is  up, 
Remsen.     The  jig  is  up,  I  tell  you." 

"  Look  at  me,"  said  Remsen,  who  was  his  smiling 
self,  pointing  to  his  own  face ;  "  whom  do  you  see 
here?" 

"Goo'  fellow,"  said  O'Roon,  dizzily,  "Goo'  old 
Remsen." 

Not  so,"  said  Remsen.     u  You  see  Mounted  Po- 


tt 


The  Badge  of  Policeman  O'Roon      85 

liceman  O'Roon.  Look  at  your  face  —  no ;  you  can't 
do  that  without  a  glass  —  but  look  at  mine,  and  think 
of  yours.  How  much  alike  are  we?  As  two  French 
table  d'hote  dinners.  With  your  badge,  on  your 
horse,  in  your  uniform,  will  I  charm  nurse-maids  and 
prevent  the  grass  from  growing  under  people's  feet 
in  the  Park  this  day.  I  will  save  your  badge  and 
your  honor,  besides  having  the  j  oiliest  lark  I've  been 
blessed  with  since  we  licked  Spain. 

Promptly  on  time  the  counterfeit  presentment  of 
Mounted  Policeman  O'Roon  single-footed  into  the 
Park  on  his  chestnut  steed.  In  a  uniform  two  men 
who  are  unlike  will  look  alike ;  two  who  somewhat  re- 
semble each  other  in  feature  and  figure  will  appear  as 
twin  brothers.  So  Remsen  trotted  down  the  bridle 
paths,  enjoying  himself  hugely,  so  few  real  pleasures 
do  ten-millionaires  have. 

Along  the  driveway  in  the  early  morning  spun  a 
victoria  drawn  by  a  pair  of  fiery  bays.  There  was 
something  foreign  about  the  affair,  for  the  Park  is 
rarely  used  in  the  morning  except  by  unimportant 
people  who  love  to  be  healthy,  poor  and  wise.  In  the 
vehicle  sat  an  old  gentleman  with  snowy  side-whiskers 
and  a  Scotch  plaid  cap  which  could  not  be  worn  while 
driving  except  by  a  personage.  At  his  side  sat  the 
lady  of  Remsen's  heart  —  the  lady  who  looked  like 
pomegranate  blossoms  and  the  gibbous  moon. 

Remsen  met  them  coming.     At  the  instant  of  their 


86  The  Trimmed  Lamp 

passing  her  eyes  looked  into  his,  and  but  for  the  ever 
coward  heart  of  a  true  lover  he  could  have  sworn  that 
she  flushed  a  faint  pink.  He  trotted  on  for  twenty 
yards,  and  then  wheeled  his  horse  at  the  sound  of  run- 
away hoofs.     The  bays  had  bolted. 

Remsen  sent  his  chestnut  after  the  victoria  like  a 
shot.  There  was  work  cut  out  for  the  impersonator 
of  Policeman  O'Roon.  The  chestnut  ranged  along- 
side the  off  bay  thirty  seconds  after  the  chase  began, 
rolled  his  eye  back  at  Remsen,  and  said  in  the  only 
manner  open  to  policemen's  horses : 

"  Well,  you  duffer,  are  you  going  to  do  your  share? 
You're  not  O'Roon,  but  it  seems  to  me  if  you'd  lean 
to  the  right  you  could  reach  the  reins  of  that  foolish, 
slow-running  bay  —  ah !  you're  all  right ;  O'Roon 
couldn't  have  done  it  more  neatly !  " 

The  runaway  team  was  tugged  to  an  inglorious  halt 
by  Remsen's  tough  muscles.  The  driver  released  his 
hands  from  the  wrapped  reins,  jumped  from  his  seat 
and  stood  at  the  heads  of  the  team.  The  chestnut, 
approving  his  new  rider,  danced  and  pranced,  reviling 
equinely  the  subdued  bays.  Remsen,  lingering,  was 
dimly  conscious  of  a  vague,  impossible,  unnecessary 
old  gentleman  in  a  Scotch  cap  who  talked  incessantly 
about  something.  And  he  was  acutely  conscious  of 
a  pair  of  violet  eyes  that  would  have  drawn  Saint 
Pyrites  from  his  iron  pillar  —  or  whatever  the  allusion 
is  —  and  of  the  lady's  smile  and  look  —  a  little  fright- 


The  Badge  of  Policeman  O'Roon      87 

cned,  but  a  look  that,  with  the  ever  coward  heart  of  a 
true  lover,  he  could  not  yet  construe.  They  were  ask- 
ing his  name  and  bestowing  upon  him  well-bred  thanks 
for  his  heroic  deed,  and  the  Scotch  cap  was  especially 
babbling  and  insistent.  But  the  eloquent  appeal  was 
in  the  eyes  of  the  lady. 

A  little  thrill  of  satisfaction  ran  through  Remsen, 
because  he  had  a  name  to  give  which,  without  undue 
pride,  was  worthy  of  being  spoken  in  high  places,  and 
a  small  fortune  which,  with  due  pride,  he  could  leave 
at  his  end  without  disgrace. 

He  opened  his  lips  to  speak,  and  closed  them  again. 

Who  was  he?  Mounted  Policeman  O'Roon.  The 
badge  and  the  honor  of  his  comrade  were  in  his  hands. 
If  Ellsworth  Remsen,  ten-millionaire  and  Knicker- 
bocker, had  just  rescued  pomegranate  blossoms  and 
Scotch  cap  from  possible  death,  where  was  Policeman 
O'Roon?  Off  his  beat,  exposed,  disgraced,  dis- 
charged. Love  had  come,  but  before  that  there  had 
been  something  that  demanded  precedence  —  the  fel- 
lowship of  men  on  battlefields  fighting  an  alien  foe. 

Remsen  touched  his  cap,  looked  between  the  chest- 
nut's ears,  and  took  refuge  in  vernacularity. 

"  Don't  mention  it,"  he  said  stolidly.  "  We  police- 
men are  paid  to  do  these  things.     It's  our  duty." 

And  he  rode  away  —  rode  away  cursing  noblesse 
oblige,  but  knowing  he  could  never  have  done  any- 
thing else. 


88  The  Trimmed  Lamp 

At  the  end  of  the  day  Rem  sen  sent  the  chestnut  to 
his  stable  and  went  to  O'Roon's  room.  The  police- 
man was  again  a  well  set  up,  affable,  cool  young  man 
who  sat  by  the  window  smoking  cigars. 

"  I  wish  you  and  the  rest  of  the  police  force  and 
all  badges,  horses,  brass  buttons  and  men  who  can't 
drink  two  glasses  of  brut  without  getting  upset  were 
at  the  devil,"  said  Remsen  feelingly. 

O'Roon  smiled  with  evident  satisfaction. 

"  Good  old  Remsen,"  he  said,  affably,  "  I  know  all 
about  it.  They  trailed  me  down  and  cornered  me  here 
two  hours  ago.  There  was  a  little  row  at  home,  you 
know,  and  I  cut  sticks  just  to  show  them.  I  don't 
believe  I  told  you  that  my  Governor  was  the  Earl  of 
Ardsley.  Funny  you  should  bob  against  them  in  the 
Park.  If  you  damaged  that  horse  of  mine  I'll  never 
forgive  you.  I'm  going  to  buy  him  and  take  him 
back  with  me.  Oh,  yes,  and  I  think  my  sister  — 
Lady  Angela,  you  know  —  wants  particularly  for  you 
to  come  up  to  the  hotel  with  me  this  evening.  Didn't 
lose  my  badge,  did  you,  Remsen?  I've  got  to  turn 
that  in  at  Headquarters  when  I  resign." 


BRICKDUST  ROW 

BLINKER  was  displeased.  A  man  of  less  culture 
and  poise  and  wealth  would  have  sworn.  But 
Blinker  always  remembered  that  he  was  a  gentleman 
—  a  thing  that  no  gentleman  should  do.  So  he 
merely  looked  bored  and  sardonic  while  he  rode  in  a 
hansom  to  the  center  of  disturbance,  which  was  the 
Broadway  office  of  Lawyer  Oldport,  who  was  agent 
for  the  Blinker  estate. 

"  I  don't  see,"  said  Blinker,  "  why  I  should  be 
always  signing  confounded  papers.  I  am  packed, 
and  was  to  have  left  for  the  North  Woods  this  morn- 
ing. Now  I  must  wait  until  to-morrow  morning.  I 
hate  night  trains.  My  best  razors  are,  of  course,  at 
the  bottom  of  some  unidentifiable  trunk.  It  is  a  plot 
to  drive  me  to  bay  rum  and  a  monologueing,  thumb- 
handed  barber.  Give  me  a  pen  that  doesn't  scratch. 
I  hate  pens  that  scratch." 

"  Sit  down,"  said  double-chinned,  gray  Lawyer  Old- 
port.  "  The  worst  has  not  been  told  you.  Oh,  the 
hardships  of  the  rich !  The  papers  are  not  yet  ready 
to  sign.  They  will  be  laid  before  you  to-morrow  at 
eleven.  You  will  miss  another  day.  Twice  shall  the 
barber   tweak   the  helpless   nose  of  a   Blinker.     Be 

89 


90  The  Trimmed  Lamp 

thankful  that  your  sorrows  do  not  embrace  a  hair- 
cut." 

"  If,"  said  Blinker,  rising,  "  the  act  did  not  involve 
more  signing  of  papers  I  would  take  my  business  out 
of  your  hands  at  once.     Give  me  a  cigar,  please." 

"  If,"  said  Lawyer  Oldport,  "  I  had  cared  to  see  an 
old  friend's  son  gulped  down  at  one  mouthful  by 
sharks  I  would  have  ordered  you  to  take  it  away  long 
ago.  Now,  let's  quit  fooling,  Alexander.  Besides 
the  grinding  task  of  signing  your  name  some  thirty 
times  to-morrow,  I  must  impose  upon  you  the  consid- 
eration of  a  matter  of  business  —  of  business,  and  I 
may  say  humanity  or  right.  I  spoke  to  you  about 
this  five  years  ago,  but  you  would  not  listen  —  you 
were  in  a  hurry  for  a  coaching  trip,  I  think.  The 
subject  has  come  up  again.     The  property  —  " 

"  Oh,  property !  "  interrupted  Blinker.  "  Dear 
Mr.  Oldport,  I  think  you  mentioned  to-morrow.  Let's 
have  it  all  at  one  dose  to-morrow  —  signatures  and 
property  and  snappy  rubber  bands  and  that  smelly 
sealing-wax  and  all.  Have  luncheon  with  me  ?  Well, 
I'll  try  to  remember  to  drop  in  at  eleven  to-morrow. 
Morning." 

The  Blinker  wealth  was  in  lands,  tenements  and 
hereditaments,  as  the  legal  phrase  goes.  Lawyer  Old- 
port  had  once  taken  Alexander  in  his  little  pulmonary 
gasoline  runabout  to  see  the  many  buildings  and  rows 
of  buildings  that  he  owned  in  the  city.  For  Alex- 
ander was  sole  heir.     They  had  amused  Blinker  very 


Brickdust  Row  91 

much.  The  houses  looked  so  incapable  of  producing 
the  big  sums  of  money  that  Lawyer  Oldport  kept 
piling  up  in  banks  for  him  to  spend. 

In  the  evening  Blinker  went  to  one  of  his  clubs,  in- 
tending to  dine.  Nobody  was  there  except  some  old 
fogies  playing  whist  who  spoke  to  him  with  grave 
politeness  and  glared  at  him  with  savage  con- 
tempt. Everybody  was  out  of  town.  But  here 
he  was  kept  in  like  a  schoolboy  to  write  his  name 
over  and  over  on  pieces  of  paper.  His  wounds  were 
deep. 

Blinker  turned  his  back  on  the  fogies,  and  said  to 
the  club  steward  who  had  come  forward  with  some  non- 
sense about  cold  fresh  salmon  roe : 

"  Symons,  I'm  going  to  Coney  Island."  He  said 
it  as  one  might  say:  "  All's  off;  I'm  going  to  jump 
into  the  river." 

The  joke  pleased  Symons.  He  laughed  within  a 
sixteenth  of  a  note  of  the  audibility  permitted  by  the 
laws  governing  employees. 

"  Certainly,  sir,"  he  tittered.  "  Of  course,  sir,  I 
think  I  can  see  you  at  Coney,  Mr.  Blinker." 

Blinker  got  a  paper  and  looked  up  the  movements 
of  Sunday  steamboats.  Then  he  found  a  cab  at  the 
first  corner  and  drove  to  a  North  River  pier.  He 
stood  in  line,  as  democratic  as  you  or  I,  and  bought 
a  ticket,  and  was  trampled  upon  and  shoved  forward 
until,  at  last,  he  found  himself  on  the  upper  deck  of 
the  boat  staring  brazenly  at  a  girl  who  sat  alone  upon 


92  The  Trimmed  Lamp 

a  camp  stool.  But  Blinker  did  not  intend  to  be 
brazen ;  the  girl  was  so  wonderfully  good  looking  that 
he  forgot  for  one  minute  that  he  was  the  prince  incog, 
and  behaved  just  as  he  did  in  society. 

She  was  looking  at  him,  too,  and  not  severely.  A 
puff  of  wind  threatened  Blinker's  straw  hat.  He 
caught  it  warily  and  settled  it  again.  The  move- 
ment gave  the  effect  of  a  bow.  The  girl  nodded  and 
smiled,  and  in  another  instant  he  was  seated  at  her 
side.  She  was  dressed  all  in  white,  she  was  paler  than 
Blinker  imagined  milkmaids  and  girls  of  humble  sta- 
tions to  be,  but  she  was  as  tidy  as  a  cherry  blossom, 
and  her  steady,  supremely  frank  gray  eyes  looked  out 
from  the  intrepid  depths  of  an  unshadowed  and  un- 
troubled soul. 

"  How  dare  you  raise  your  hat  to  me?  "  she  asked, 
with  a  smile-redeemed  severity. 

"  I  didn't,"  Blinker  said,  but  he  quickly  covered  the 
mistake  by  extending  it  to  "  I  didn't  know  how  to 
keep  from  it  after  I  saw  you." 

"  I  do  not  allow  gentleman  to  sit  by  me  to  whom 
I  have  not  been  introduced,"  she  said,  with  a  sudden 
haughtiness  that  deceived  him.  He  rose  reluctantly, 
but  her  clear,  teasing  laugh  brought  him  down  to  his 
chair  again. 

"  I  guess  you  weren't  going  far,"  she  (declared, 
with  beauty's  magnificent  self-confidence. 

Are  you  going  to  Coney  Island?  "  asked  Blinker. 


a 


Brickdust  'Row  93 

"  Me  ?  "  She  turned  upon  him  wide-open  eyes  full 
of  bantering  surprise.  "  Why,  what  a  question ! 
Can't  you  see  that  I'm  riding  a  bicycle  in  the  park  ?  " 
Her  drollery  took  the  form  of  impertinence. 

"  And  I  am  laying  brick  on  a  tall  factory  chimney," 
said  Blinker.  "  Mayn't  we  see  Coney  together?  I'm 
all  alone  and  I've  never  been  there  before." 

"  It  depends,"  said  the  girl,  "  on  how  nicely  you 
behave.  I'll  consider  your  application  until  we  get 
there." 

Blinker  took  pains  to  provide  against  the  rejection 
of  his  application.  He  strove  to  please.  To  adopt 
the  metaphor  of  his  nonsensical  phrase,  he  laid  brick 
upon  brick  on  the  tall  chimney  of  his  devoirs  until,  at 
length,  the  structure  was  stable  and  complete.  The 
manners  of  the  best  society  come  around  finally  to  sim- 
plicity ;  and  as  the  girl's  way  was  that  naturally,  they 
were  on  a  mutual  plane  of  communication  from  the 
beginning. 

He  learned  that  she  was  twenty,  and  her  name  was 
Florence ;  that  she  trimmed  hats  in  a  millinery  shop ; 
that  she  lived  in  a  furnished  room  with  her  best  chum 
Ella,  who  was  cashier  in  a  shoe  store ;  and  that  a  glass 
of  milk  from  the  bottle  on  the  window-sill  and  an  egg 
that  boils  itself  while  you  twist  up  your  hair  makes 
a  breakfast  good  enough  for  any  one.  Florence 
laughed  when  she  heard  "  Blinker." 

"  Well,"  she  said.     "  It  certainly  shows  that  you 


94  The  Trimmed  Lamp 

have  imagination.  It  gives  the  '  Smiths '  a  chance 
for  a  little  rest,  anyhow." 

They  landed  at  Coney,  and  were  dashed  on  the  crest 
of  a  great  human  wave  of  mad  pleasure-seekers  into 
the  walks  and  avenues  of  Fairyland  gone  into  vaude- 
ville. 

With  a  curious  eye,  a  critical  mind  and  a  fairly 
withheld  judgment  Blinker  considered  the  temples, 
pagodas  and  kiosks  of  popularized  delights.  Hoi 
polloi  trampled,  hustled  and  crowded  him.  Basket 
parties  bumped  him;  sticky  children  tumbled,  howl- 
ing, under  his  feet,  candying  his  clothes.  Insolent 
youths  strolling  among  the  booths  with  hard-won 
canes  under  one  arm  and  easily  won  girls  on  the  other, 
blew  defiant  smoke  from  cheap  cigars  into  his  face. 
The  publicity  gentlemen  with  megaphones,  each  be- 
fore his  own  stupendous  attraction,  roared  like  Niag- 
ara in  his  ears.  Music  of  all  kinds  that  could  be  tor- 
tured from  brass,  reed,  hide  or  string,  fought  in  the 
air  to  gain  space  for  its  vibrations  against  its  com- 
petitors. But  what  held  Blinker  in  awful  fascination 
was  the  mob,  the  multitude,  the  proletariat  shrieking, 
struggling,  hurrying,  panting,  hurling  itself  in  incon- 
tinent frenzy,  with  unabashed  abandon,  into  the  ridic- 
ulous sham  palaces  of  trumpery  and  tinsel  pleasures. 
The  vulgarity  of  it,  its  brutal  overriding  of  all  the 
tenets  of  repression  and  taste  that  were  held  by  his 
caste,  repelled  him  strongly. 


'BricJcdust  Row  95 

In  the  midst  of  his  disgust  he  turned  and  looked 
down  at  Florence  by  his  side.  She  was  ready  with 
her  quick  smile  and  upturned,  happy  eyes,  as  bright 
and  clear  as  the  water  in  trout  pools.  The  eyes  were 
saying  that  they  had  the  right  to  be  shining  and 
happy,  for  was  their  owner  not  with  her  (for  the 
present)  Man,  her  Gentleman  Friend  and  holder  of 
the  keys  to  the  enchanted  city  of  fun? 

Blinker  did  not  read  her  look  accurately,  but  by 
some  miracle  he  suddenly  saw  Coney  aright. 

He  no  longer  saw  a  mass  of  vulgarians  seeking 
gross  joys.  He  now  looked  clearly  upon  a  hundred 
thousand  true  idealists.  Their  offenses  were  wiped 
out.  Counterfeit  and  false  though  the  garish  joys 
of  these  spangled  temples  were,  he  perceived  that  deep 
under  the  gilt  surface  they  offered  saving  and  apposite 
balm  and  satisfaction  to  the  restless  human  heart. 
Here,  at  least,  was  the  husk  of  Romance,  the  empty 
but  shining  casque  of  Chivalry,  the  breath-catching 
though  safe-guarded  dip  and  flight  of  Adventure,  the 
magic  carpet  that  transports  you  to  the  realms  of 
fairyland,  though  its  journey  be  through  but  a  few 
poor  yards  of  space.  He  no  longer  saw  a  rabble,  but 
his  brothers  seeking  the  ideal.  There  was  no  magic 
of  poesy  here  or  of  art;  but  the  glamour  of  their 
imagination  turned  yellow  calico  into  cloth  of  gold 
and  the  megaphones  into  the  silver  trumpets  of  joy's 
heralds. 


96  The  Trimmed  Lamp 

Almost  humbled,  Blinker  rolled  up  the  shirt  sleeves 
of  his  mind  and  joined  the  idealists. 

"  You  are  the  lady  doctor,"  he  said  to  Florence. 
"  How  shall  we  go  about  doing  this  jolly  conglomera- 
tion of  fairy  tales,  incorporated?  " 

"  We  will  begin  there,"  said  the  Princess,  pointing 
to  a  fun  pagoda  on  the  edge  of  the  sea,  "  and  we  will 
take  them  all  in,  one  by  one." 

They  caught  the  eight  o'clock  returning  boat  and 
sat,  filled  with  pleasant  fatigue  against  the  rail  in  the 
bow,  listening  to  the  Italians'  fiddle  and  harp. 
Blinker  had  thrown  off  all  care.  The  North  Woods 
seemed  to  him  an  uninhabitable  wilderness.  What  a 
fuss  he  had  made  over  signing  his  name  —  pooh !  he 
could  sign  it  a  hundred  times.  And  her  name  was  as 
pretty  as  she  was  —  "  Florence,"  he  said  it  to  him- 
self a  great  many  times. 

As  the  boat  was  nearing  its  pier  in  the  North  River 
a  two-funnelled,  drab,  foreign-looking  sea-going 
steamer  was  dropping  down  toward  the  bay.  The 
boat  turned  its  nose  in  toward  its  slip.  The  steamer 
veered  as  if  to  seek  midstream,  and  then  yawed,  seemed 
to  increase  its  speed  and  struck  the  Coney  boat  on  the 
side  near  the  stern,  cutting  into  it  with  a  terrifying 
shock  and  crash. 

While  the  six  hundred  passengers  on  the  boat  were 
mostly  tumbling  about  the  decks  in  a  shrieking  panic 
the  captain  was  shouting  at  the  steamer  that  it  should 


Brickdust  Row  97 

not  back  off  and  leave  the  rent  exposed  for  the  water 
to  enter.  But  the  steamer  tore  its  way  out  like  a 
savage  sawfish  and  cleaved  its  heartless  way,  full 
speed  ahead. 

The  boat  began  to  sink  at  its  stern,  but  moved 
slowly  toward  the  slip.  The  passengers  were  a  fran- 
tic mob,  unpleasant  to  behold. 

Blinker  held  Florence  tightly  until  the  boat  had 
righted  itself.  She  made  no  sound  or  sign  of  fear. 
He  stood  on  a  camp  stool,  ripped  off  the  slats  above 
his  head  and  pulled  down  a  number  of  the  life  pre- 
servers. He  began  to  buckle  one  around  Florence. 
The  rotten  canvas  split  and  the  fraudulent  granu- 
lated cork  came  pouring  out  in  a  stream.  Florence 
caught  a  handful  of  it  and  laughed  gleefully. 

"  It  looks  like  breakfast  food,"  she  said.  "  Take  it 
off.     They're  no  good." 

She  unbuckled  it  and  threw  it  on  the  deck.  She 
made  Blinker  sit  down,  and  sat  by  his  side  and 
put  her  hand  in  his.  "What'll  you  bet  we  don't 
reach  the  pier  all  right  ?  "  she  said,  and  began  to  hum 
a  song. 

And  now  the  captain  moved  among  the  passengers 
and  compelled  order.  The  boat  would  undoubtedly 
make  her  slip,  he  said,  and  ordered  the  women  and 
children  to  the  bow,  where  they  could  land  first.  The 
boat,  very  low  in  the  water  at  the  stern,  tried  gallantly 
to  make  his  promise  good. 


98  The  Trimmed  Lamp 


"  Florence,"  said  Blinker,  as  she  held  him  close  by 
an  arm  and  hand,  "  I  love  you." 

"  That's  what  they  all  say,"  she  replied,  lightly. 

"  I  am  not  one  of  *  they  all,'  "  he  persisted.  "  I 
never  knew  any  one  I  could  love  before.  I  could  pass 
my  life  with  you  and  be  happy  every  day.  I  am 
rich.     I  can  make  things  all  right  for  you." 

"  That's  what  they  all  say,"  said  the  girl  again, 
weaving  the  words  into  her  little,  reckless  song. 

"  Don't  say  that  again,"  said  Blinker  in  a  tone  that 
made  her  look  at  him  in  frank  surprise. 

"Why  shouldn't  I  say  it?"  she  asked  calmly. 
"  They  all  do." 

"  Who  are  '  they?  '  "  he  asked,  jealous  for  the  first 
time  in  his  existence. 

"  Why,  the  fellows  I  know." 

"  Do  you  know  so  many?  " 

"  Oh,  well,  I'm  not  a  wall  flower,"  she  answered  with 
modest  complacency. 

"  Where  do  you  see  these  —  these  men  ?  At  your 
home  ?  " 

"  Of  course  not.  I  meet  them  just  as  I  did  you. 
Sometimes  on  the  boat,  sometimes  in  the  park,  some- 
times on  the  street.  I'm  a  pretty  good  judge  of  a 
man.  I  can  tell  in  a  minute  if  a  fellow  is  one  who  is 
likely  to  get  fresh." 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  '  fresh?  '  " 

"  Why,  try  to  kiss  you  —  me,  I  mean." 


Brickdust  Row  99 

"  Do  any  of  them  try  that?  "  asked  Blinker,  clench- 
ing his  teeth. 

"  Sure.     All  men  do.     You  know  that." 

"  Do  you  allow  them?  " 

"  Some.  Not  many.  They  won't  take  you  out 
anywhere  unless  you  do." 

She  turned  her  head  and  looked  searchingly  at 
Blinker.  Her  eyes  were  as  innocent  as  a  child's. 
There  was  a  puzzled  look  in  them,  as  though  she  did 
not  understand  him. 

"  What's  wrong  about  my  meeting  fellows  ?  "  she 
asked,  wonderingly. 

"  Everything,"  he  answered,  almost  savagely. 
"  Why  don't  you  entertain  your  company  in  the  house 
where  you  live  ?  Is  it  necessary  to  pick  up  Tom,  Dick 
and  Harry  on  the  streets  ?  " 

She  kept  her  absolutely  ingenuous  eyes  upon  his. 

"  If  you  could  see  the  place  where  I  live  you 
wouldn't  ask  that.  I  live  in  Brickdust  Row.  They 
call  it  that  because  there's  red  dust  from  the  bricks 
crumbling  over  everything.  I've  lived  there  for  more 
than  four  years.  There's  no  place  to  receive  com- 
pany. You  can't  have  anybody  come  to  your  room. 
What  else  is  there  to  do?  A  girl  has  got  to  meet  the 
men,  hasn't  she?  " 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  hoarsely.  "  A  girl  has  got  to  meet 
a  —  has  got  to  meet  the  men." 

"  The  first  time  one  spoke  to  me  on  the  street,"  she 


100  The  Trimmed  Lamp 

continued,  "  I  ran  home  and  cried  all  night.  But  you 
get  used  to  it.  I  meet  a  good  many  nice  fellows  at 
church.  I  go  on  rainy  days  and  stand  in  the  vesti- 
bule until  one  comes  up  with  an  umbrella.  I  wish 
there  was  a  parlor,  so  I  could  ask  you  to  call,  Mr. 
Blinker —  are  you  really  sure  it  isn't '  Smith,'  now?  " 

The  boat  landed  safely.  Blinker  had  a  confused 
impression  of  walking  with  the  girl  through  quiet 
crosstown  streets  until  she  stopped  at  a  corner  and 
held  out  her  hand. 

I    live    just    one    more    block    over,"    she    said. 
Thank  you  for  a  very  pleasant  afternoon." 

Blinker  muttered  something  and  plunged  north- 
ward till  he  found  a  cab.  A  big,  gray  church  loomed 
slowly  at  his  right.  Blinker  shook  his  fist  at  it 
through  the  window. 

"  I  gave  you  a  thousand  dollars  last  week,"  he 
cried  under  his  breath,  "  and  she  meets  them  in  your 
very  doors.  There  is  something  wrong;  there  is 
something  wrong." 

At  eleven  the  next  day  Blinker  signed  his  name 
thirty  times  with  a  new  pen  provided  by  Lawyer  Old- 
port. 

"  Now  let  me  go  to  the  woods,"  he  said  surlily. 

"  You  are  not  looking  well,"  said  Lawyer  Oldport. 
"  The  trip  will  do  you  good.  But  listen,  if  you  will, 
to  that  little  matter  of  business  of  which  I  spoke  to 
you  yesterday,  and  also  five  years  ago.     There  are 


Brickdust  Row  101 

some  buildings,  fifteen  in  number,  of  which  there  are 
new  five-year  leases  to  be  signed.  Your  father  con- 
templated a  change  in  the  lease  provisions,  but  never 
made  it.  He  intended  that  the  parlors  of  these  houses 
should  not  be  sub-let,  but  that  the  tenants  should  be 
allowed  to  use  them  for  reception  rooms.  These 
houses  are  in  the  shopping  district,  and  are  mainly 
tenanted  by  young  working  girls.  As  it  is  they  are 
forced  to  seek  companionship  outside.  This  row  of 
red  brick  —  " 

Blinker  interrupted  him  with  a  loud,  discordant 
laugh. 

"  Brickdust  Row  for  an  even  hundred,"  he  cried. 
"  And  I  own  it.     Have  I  guessed  right?  " 

"  The  tenants  have  some  such  name  for  it,"  said 
Lawyer  Oldport. 

Blinker  arose  and  jammed  his  hat  down  to  his  eyes. 

"  Do  what  you  please  with  it,"  he  said  harshly. 
"Remodel  it,  burn  it,  raze  it  to  the  ground.  But, 
man,  it's  too  late  I  tell  you.  It's  too  late.  It's  too 
late.     It's  too  late." 


THE  MAKING  OF  A  NEW  YORKER 

BESIDES  many  other  things,  Raggles  was  a  poet. 
He  was  called  a  tramp;  but  that  was  only  an  el- 
liptical way  of  saying  that  he  was  a  philosopher,  an 
artist,  a  traveller,  a  naturalist  and  a  discoverer. 
But  most  of  all  he  was  a  poet.  In  all  his  life  he 
never  wrote  a  line  of  verse ;  he  lived  his  poetry.  His 
Odyssey  would  have  been  a  Limerick,  had  it  been  writ- 
ten. But,  to  linger  with  the  primary  proposition, 
Raggles  was  a  poet. 

Raggles's  specialty,  had  he  been  driven  to  ink  and 
paper,  would  have  been  sonnets  to  the  cities.  He 
studied  cities  as  women  study  their  reflections  in  mir- 
rors; as  children  study  the  glue  and  sawdust  of  a 
dislocated  doll ;  as  the  men  who  write  about  wild  ani- 
mals study  the  cages  in  the  zoo.  A  city  to  Raggles 
was  not  merely  a  pile  of  bricks  and  mortar,  peopled 
by  a  certain  number  of  inhabitants ;  it  was  a  thing 
with  a  soul  characteristic  and  distinct;  an  individual 
conglomeration  of  life,  with  its  own  peculiar  essence, 
flavor  and  feeling.  Two  thousand  miles  to  the  north 
and  south,  east  and  west,  Raggles  wandered  in  poetic 
fervor,  taking  the  cities  to  his  breast.     He  footed  it 

on  dusty  roads,  or  sped  magnificently  in  freight  cars, 

102 


The  Making  of  a  New  Yorker      103 

counting  time  as  of  no  account.  And  when  he  had 
found  the  heart  of  a  city  and  listened  to  its  secret  con- 
fession, he  strayed  on,  restless,  to  another.  Fickle 
Raggles !  —  but  perhaps  he  had  not  met  the  civic 
corporation  that  could  engage  and  hold  his  critical 
fancy. 

Through  the  ancient  poets  we  have  learned  that  the 
cities  are  feminine.  So  they  were  to  poet  Raggles ; 
and  his  mind  carried  a  concrete  and  clear  conception 
of  the  figure  that  symbolized  and  typified  each  one 
that  he  had  wooed. 

Chicago  seemed  to  swoop  down  upon  him  with  a 
breezy  suggestion  of  Mrs.  Partington,  plumes  and 
patchouli,  and  to  disturb  his  rest  with  a  soaring  and 
beautiful  song  of  future  promise.  But  Raggles 
would  awake  to  a  sense  of  shivering  cold  and  a  haunt- 
ing impression  of  ideals  lost  in  a  depressing  aura  of 
potato  salad  and  fish. 

Thus  Chicago  affected  him.  Perhaps  there  is  a 
vagueness  and  inaccuracy  in  the  description ;  but  that 
is  Raggle's  fault.  He  should  have  recorded  his  sen- 
sations in  magazine  poems. 

Pittsburg  impressed  him  as  the  play  of  "  Othello  " 
performed  in  the  Russian  language  in  a  railroad 
station  by  Dockstader's  minstrels.  A  royal  and  gen- 
erous lady  this  Pittsburg,  though  —  homely,  hearty, 
with  flushed  face,  washing  the  dishes  in  a  silk  dress 
and  white  kid  slippers,  and  bidding  Raggles  sit  be- 


104  The  Trimmed  Lamp 

fore  the  roaring  fireplace  and  drink  champagne  with 
his  pigs'  feet  and  fried  potatoes. 

New  Orleans  had  simply  gazed  down  upon  him 
from  a  balcony.  He  could  see  her  pensive,  starry 
eyes  and  catch  the  flutter  of  her  fan,  and  that  was 
all.  Only  once  he  came  face  to  face  with  her.  It 
was  at  dawn,  when  she  was  flushing  the  red  bricks 
of  the  banquette  with  a  pail  of  water.  She  laughed 
and  hummed  a  chansonette  and  filled  Raggles's  shoes 
with  ice-cold  water.     Allons ! 

Boston  construed  herself  to  the  poetic  Raggles  in 
an  erratic  and  singular  way.  It  seemed  to  him  that 
he  had  drunk  cold  tea  and  that  the  city  was  a  white, 
cold  cloth  that  had  been  bound  tightly  around  his 
brow  to  spur  him  to  some  unknown  but  tremendous 
mental  effort.  And,  after  all,  he  came  to  shovel  snow 
for  a  livelihood ;  and  the  cloth,  becoming  wet,  tight- 
ened its  knots  and  could  not  be  removed. 

Indefinite  and  unintelligible  ideas,  you  will  say; 
but  your  disapprobation  should  be  tempered  with 
gratitude,  for  these  are  poets'  fancies  —  and  suppose 
you  had  come  upon  them  in  verse ! 

One  day  Raggles  came  and  laid  siege  to  the  heart 
of  the  great  city  of  Manhattan.  She  was  the  great- 
est of  all;  and  he  wanted  to  learn  her  note  in  the 
scale;  to  taste  and  appraise  and  classify  and  solve 
and  label  her  and  arrange  her  with  the  other  cities 
that  had  given  him  up  the  secret  of  their  individ- 


The  Making  of  a  New  Yorker      105 

uality.  And  here  we  cease  to  be  Raggles's  translator 
and  become  his  chronicler. 

Haggles  landed  from  a  ferry-boat  one  morning  and 
walked  into  the  core  of  the  town  with  the  blase  air 
of  a  cosmopolite.  He  was  dressed  with  care  to  play 
the  role  of  an  "  unidentified  man."  No  country,  race, 
class,  clique,  union,  party,  clan  or  bowling  associa- 
tion could  have  claimed  him.  His  clothing,  which  had 
been  donated  to  him  piece-meal  by  citizens  of  different 
height,  but  same  number  of  inches  around  the  heart, 
was  not  yet  as  uncomfortable  to  his  figure  as  those 
specimens  of  raiment,  self-measured,  that  are  rail- 
roaded to  you  by  transcontinental  tailors  with  a  suit 
case,  suspenders,  silk  handkerchief  and  pearl  studs  as 
a  bonus.  Without  money  —  as  a  poet  should  be  — 
but  with  the  ardor  of  an  astronomer  discovering  a 
new  star  in  the  chorus  of  the  milky  way,  or  a  man 
who  has  seen  ink  suddenly  flow  from  his  fountain  pen, 
Raggles  wandered  into  the  great  city. 

Late  in  the  afternoon  he  drew  out  of  the  roar  and 
commotion  with  a  look  of  dumb  terror  on  his  counte- 
nance. He  was  defeated,  puzzled,  discomfited,  fright- 
ened. Other  cities  had  been  to  him  as  long  primer 
to  read;  as  country  maidens  quickly  to  fathom; 
as  send-price-of-subscription-with-answer  rebuses  to 
solve ;  as  oyster  cocktails  to  swallow ;  but  here  was  one 
as  cold,  glittering,  serene,  impossible  as  a  four-carat 
diamond    in    a   window    to    a    lover   outside    finger- 


106  The  Trimmed  Lamp 

ing  damply  in  his  pocket  his  ribbon-counter  salary. 

The  greetings  of  the  other  cities  he  had  known  — 
their  homespun  kindliness,  their  human  gamut  of 
rough  charity,  friendly  curses,  garrulous  curiosity 
and  easily  estimated  credulity  or  indifference.  This 
city  of  Manhattan  gave  him  no  clue;  it  was  walled 
against  him.  Like  a  river  of  adamant  it  flowed  past 
him  in  the  streets.  Never  an  eye  was  turned  upon 
him;  no  voice  spoke  to  him.  His  heart  yearned  for 
the  clap  of  Pittsburg's  sooty  hand  on  his  shoulder; 
for  Chicago's  menacing  but  social  yawp  in  his  ear; 
for  the  pale  and  eleemosynary  stare  through  the  Bos- 
tonian  eyeglass  —  even  for  the  precipitate  but  unmali- 
cious  boot-toe  of  Louisville  or  St.  Louis. 

On  Broadway  Haggles,  successful  suitor  of  many 
cities,  stood,  bashful,  like  any  country  swain.  For 
the  first  time  he  experienced  the  poignant  humiliation 
of  being  ignored.  And  when  he  tried  to  reduce  this 
brilliant,  swiftly  changing,  ice-cold  city  to  a  formula 
he  failed  utterly.  Poet  though  he  was,  it  offered  him 
no  color  similes,  no  points  of  comparison,  no  flaw 
in  its  polished  facets,  no  handle  by  which  he  could 
hold  it  up  and  view  its  shape  and  structure,  as  he 
familiarly  and  often  contemptuously  had  done  with 
other  towns.  The  houses  were  interminable  ramparts 
loopholed  for  defense;  the  people  were  bright  but 
bloodless  spectres  passing  in  sinister  and  selfish  array. 

The  thing  that  weighed  heaviest  on  Raggles's  soul 


The  Making  of  a  New  Yorker      107 

and  clogged  his  poet's  fancy  was  the  spirit  of  abso- 
lute egotism  that  seemed  to  saturate  the  people  as  toys 
are  saturated  with  paint.  Each  one  that  he  consid- 
ered appeared  a  monster  of  abominable  and  insolent 
conceit.  Humanity  was  gone  from  them;  they  were 
toddling  idols  of  stone  and  varnish,  worshipping 
themselves  and  greedy  for  though  oblivious  of  wor- 
ship from  their  fellow  graven  images.  Frozen,  cruel, 
implacable,  impervious,  cut  to  an  identical  pattern, 
they  hurried  on  their  ways  like  statues  brought  by 
some  miracles  to  motion,  while  soul  and  feeling  lay 
unaroused  in  the  reluctant  marble. 

Gradually  Raggles  became  conscious  of  certain 
types.  One  was  an  elderly  gentleman  with  a  snow- 
white,  short  beard,  pink,  unwrinkled  face  and  stony, 
sharp  blue  eyes,  attired  in  the  fashion  of  a  gilded 
youth,  who  seemed  to  personify  the  city's  wealth,  ripe- 
ness and  frigid  unconcern.  Another  type  was  a 
woman,  tall,  beautiful,  clear  as  a  steel  engraving,  god- 
Idess-like,  calm,  clothed  like  the  princesses  of  old,  with 
eyes  as  coldly  blue  as  the  reflection  of  sunlight  on 
a  glacier.  And  another  was  a  by-product  of  this 
town  of  marionettes  —  a  broad,  swaggering,  grim, 
threateningly  sedate  fellow,  with  a  jowl  as  large  as 
a  harvested  wheat  field,  the  complexion  of  a  baptized 
infant  and  the  knuckles  of  a  prize-fighter.  This  type 
leaned  against  cigar  signs  and  viewed  the  world  with 
frapped  contumely. 


108  The  Trimmed  Lamp 

A  poet  is  a  sensitive  creature,  and  Raggles  soon 
shrivelled  in  the  bleak  embrace  of  the  undecipherable. 
The  chill,  sphynx-like,  ironical,  illegible,  unnatural, 
ruthless  expression  of  the  city  left  him  downcast  and 
bewildered.  Had  it  no  heart?  Better  the  woodpile, 
the  scolding  of  vinegar-faced  housewives  at  back 
doors,  the  kindly  spleen  of  bartenders  behind  provin- 
cial free-lunch  counters,  the  amiable  truculence  of 
rural  constables,  the  kicks,  arrests  and  happy-go- 
lucky  chances  of  the  other  vulgar,  loud,  crude  cities 
than  this  freezing  heartlessness. 

Raggles  summoned  his  courage  and  sought  alms 
from  the  populace.  Unheeding,  regardless,  they 
passed  on  without  the  wink  of  an  eyelash  to  testify 
that  they  were  conscious  of  his  existence.  And  then 
he  said  to  himself  that  this  fair  but  pitiless  city  of 
Manhattan  was  without  a  soul;  that  its  inhabitants 
were  manikins  moved  by  wires  and  springs,  and  that 
he  was  alone  in  a  great  wilderness. 

Raggles  started  to  cross  the  street.  There  was  a 
blast,  a  roar,  a  hissing  and  a  crash  as  something 
struck  him  and  hurled  him  over  and  over  six  yards 
from  where  he  had  been.  As  he  was  coming  down  like 
the  stick  of  a  rocket  the  earth  and  all  the  cities  thereof 
turned  to  a  fractured  dream. 

Raggles  opened  his  eyes.  First  an  odor  made  it- 
self known  to  him  —  an  odor  of  the  earliest  spring 
flowers   of  Paradise.     And   then   a  hand   soft   as   a 


The  Making  of  a  New  Yorker      109 

falling  petal  touched  his  brow.  Bending  over  him 
was  the  woman  clothed  like  the  princess  of  old,  with 
blue  eyes,  now  soft  and  humid  with  human  sympathy. 
Under  his  head  on  the  pavement  were  silks  and  furs. 
With  Raggles's  hat  in  his  hand  and  with  his  face 
pinker  than  ever  from  a  vehement  burst  of  oratory 
against  reckless  driving,  stood  the  elderly  gentleman 
who  personified  the  city's  wealth  and  ripeness.  From 
a  nearby  cafe  hurried  the  by-product  with  the  vast 
jowl  and  baby  complexion,  bearing  a  glass  full  of  a 
crimson  fluid  that  suggested  delightful  possibilities. 

"Drink  dis,  sport,"  said  the  by-product,  holding 
the  glass  to  Raggles's  lips. 

Hundreds  of  people  huddled  around  in  a  moment, 
their  faces  wearing  the  deepest  concern.  Two  flat- 
tering and  gorgeous  policemen  got  into  the  circle  and 
pressed  back  the  overplus  of  Samaritans.  An  old 
lady  in  a  black  shawl  spoke  loudly  of  camphor;  a 
newsboy  slipped  one  of  his  papers  beneath  Raggles's 
elbow,  where  it  lay  on  the  muddy  pavement.  A  brisk 
young  man  with  a  notebook  was  asking  for  names. 

A  bell  clanged  importantly,  and  the  ambulance 
cleaned  a  lane  through  the  crowd.  A  cool  surgeon 
slipped  into  the  midst  of  affairs. 

"  How  do  you  feel,  old  man  ?  "  asked  the  surgeon, 
stooping  easily  to  his  task.  The  princess  of  silks  and 
satins  wiped  a  red  drop  or  two  from  Raggles's  brow 
with  a  fragrant  cobweb. 


110  The  Trimmed  Lamp 

"Me?"  said  Raggles,  with  a  seraphic  smile,  "I 
feel  fine." 

He  had  found  the  heart  of  his  new  city. 

In  three  days  they  let  him  leave  his  cot  for  the 
convalescent  ward  in  the  hospital.  He  had  been  in 
there  an  hour  when  the  attendants  heard  sounds  of 
conflict.  Upon  investigation  they  found  that  Raggles 
had  assaulted  and  damaged  a  brother  convalescent  — 
a  glowering  transient  whom  a  freight  train  collision 
had  sent  in  to  be  patched  up. 

"  What's  all  this  about?  "  inquired  the  head  nurse. 

"  He  was  runnin'  down  me  town,"  said  Raggles. 

"  What  town  ?  "  asked  the  nurse. 

"  Noo  York,"  said  Raggles. 


VANITY  AND  SOME  SABLES 

WHEN  "Kid"  Brady  was  sent  to  the  ropes  by 
Molly  McKeever's  blue-black  eyes  he  withdrew  from 
the  Stovepipe  Gang.  So  much  for  the  power  of  a 
colleen's  blanderin'  tongue  and  stubborn  true-hearted- 
ness.  If  you  are  a  man  who  read  this,  may  such 
an  influence  be  sent  you  before  2  o'clock  to-morrow; 
if  you  are  a  woman,  may  your  Pomeranian  greet  you 
this  morning  with  a  cold  nose  —  a  sign  of  doghealth 
and  your  happiness. 

The  Stovepipe  Gang  borrowed  its  name  from  a  sub- 
district  of  the  city  called  the  "  Stovepipe,"  which  is  a 
narrow  and  natural  extension  of  the  familiar  district 
known  as  "  Hell's  Kitchen."  The  "  Stovepipe  "  strip 
of  town  runs  along  Eleventh  and  Twelfth  avenues  on 
the  river,  and  bends  a  hard  and  sooty  elbow  around 
little,  lost  homeless  DeWitt  Clinton  park.  Consider 
that  a  stovepipe  is  an  important  factor  in  any  kitchen 
and  the  situation  is  analyzed.  The  chefs  in  "  Hell's 
Kitchen "  are  many,  and  the  "  Stovepipe "  gang 
wears  the  cordon  blue. 

The  members  of  this  unchartered  but  widely  knows 
brotherhood  appeared  to  pass  their  time  on  street  cor- 
ners arrayed  like  the  lilies  of  the  conservatory  and 

ill 


112  The  Trimmed  Lamp 

busy  with  nail  files  and  penknives.  Thus  displayed 
as  a  guarantee  of  good  faith,  they  carried  on  an 
innocuous  conversation  in  a  200-word  vocabulary,  to 
the  casual  observer  as  innocent  and  immaterial  as  that 
heard  in  the  clubs  seven  blocks  to  the  east. 

But  off  exhibition  the  "  Stovepipes  "  were  not  mere 
street  corner  ornaments  addicted  to  posing  and  mani- 
curing. Their  serious  occupation  was  the  separating 
of  citizens  from  their  coin  and  valuables.  Preferably 
this  was  done  by  weird  and  singular  tricks  without 
noise  or  bloodshed;  but  whenever  the  citizen  honored 
by  their  attentions  refused  to  impoverish  himself 
gracefully  his  objections  came  to  be  spread  finally 
upon  some  police  station  blotter  or  hospital  reg- 
ister. 

The  police  held  the  "  Stovepipe  "  gang  in  perpet- 
ual suspicion  and  respect.  As  the  nightingale's  liq- 
uid note  is  heard  in  the  deepest  shadows  so  along  the 
"  Stovepipe's  "  dark  and  narrow  confines  the  whistle 
for  reserves  punctures  the  dull  ear  of  night.  When- 
ever there  was  smoke  in  the  "  Stovepipe "  the 
tasselled  men  in  blue  knew  there  was  fire  in  "  Hell's 
Kitchen." 

"  Kid "  Brady  promised  Molly  to  be  good. 
"  Kid  "  was  the  vainest,  the  strongest,  the  wariest 
and  the  most  successful  plotter  in  the  gang.  There- 
fore, the  boys  were  sorry  to  give  him  up. 

But  they  witnessed  his  fall  to  a  virtuous  life  with- 


Vanity  and  Some  Sables  113 

out  protest.  For,  in  the  Kitchen  it  is  considered 
neither  unmanly  nor  improper  for  a  guy  to  do  as  his 
girl  advises. 

Black  her  eye  for  love's  sake,  if  you  will;  but  it 
is  all-to-the-good  business  to  do  a  thing  when  she 
wants  you  to  do  it. 

"  Turn  off  the  hydrant,"  said  the  Kid,  one  night 
when  Molly,  tearful,  besought  him  to  amend  his  ways. 
"  I'm  going  to  cut  out  the  gang.  You  for  mine, 
and  the  simple  life  on  the  side.  I'll  tell  you,  Moll  — 
I'll  get  work ;  and  in  a  year  we'll  get  married.  I'll  do 
it  for  you.  We'll  get  a  flat  and  a  flute,  and  a  sew- 
ing machine  and  a  rubber  plant  and  live  as  honest 


as  we  can." 


"  Oh,  Kid,"  sighed  Molly,  wiping  the  powder  off 
his  shoulder  with  her  handkerchief,  "  I'd  rather  hear 
you  say  that  than  to  own  all  of  New  York.  And  we 
can  be  happy  on  so  little ! " 

The  Kid  looked  down  at  his  speckless  cuffs  and 
shining  patent  leathers  with  a  suspicion  of  melancholy. 

"  It'll  hurt  hardest  in  the  rags  department,"  said 
he.  "  I've  kind  of  always  liked  to  rig  out  swell  when 
I  could.  You  know  how  I  hate  cheap  things,  Moll. 
This  suit  set  me  back  sixty-five.  Anything  in  the 
wearing  apparel  line  has  got  to  be  just  so,  or  it's 
to  the  misfit  parlors  for  it,  for  mine.  If  I  work 
I  won't  have  so  much  coin  to  hand  over  to  the  little 
man  with  the  big  shears." 


114  The  Trimmed  Lamp 

"  Never  mind,  Kid.  I'll  like  you  just  as  much  in 
a  blue  jumper  as  I  would  in  a  red  automobile." 

Before  the  Kid  had  grown  large  enough  to  knock 
out  his  father  he  had  been  compelled  to  learn  the 
plumber's  art.  So  now  back  to  this  honorable  and 
useful  profession  he  returned.  But  it  was  as  an  as- 
sistant that  he  engaged  himself;  and  it  is  the  master 
plumber  and  not  the  assistant,  who  wears  diamonds 
as  large  as  hailstones  and  looks  contemptuously  upon 
the  marble  colonnades  of  Senator  Clark's  mansion. 

Eight  months  went  by  as  smoothly  and  surely  as 
though  they  had  "  elapsed  "  on  a  theater  program. 
The  Kid  worked  away  at  his  pipes  and  solder  with 
no  symptoms  of  backsliding.  The  Stovepipe  gang 
continued  its  piracy  on  the  high  avenues,  cracked 
policemen's  heads,  held  up  late  travelers,  invented  new 
methods  of  peaceful  plundering,  copied  Fifth  avenue's 
cut  of  clothes  and  neckwear  fancies  and  comported 
itself  according  to  its  lawless  bylaws.  But  the  Kid 
stood  firm  and  faithful  to  his  Molly,  even  though  the 
polish  was  gone  from  his  fingernails  and  it  took  him 
15  minutes  to  tie  his  purple  silk  ascot  so  that  the 
worn  places  would  not  show. 

One  evening  he  brought  a  mysterious  bundle  with 
him  to  Molly's  house. 

"  Open  that,  Moll ! "  he  said  in  his  large,  quiet 
way.     "  It's  for  you." 

Molly's  eager  fingers  tore  off  the  wrappings.     She 


Vanity  and  Some  Sables  115 

shrieked  aloud,  and  in  rushed  a  sprinkling  of  little 
McKeevers,  and  Ma  McKeever,  dishwashy,  but  an  un- 
deniable relative  of  the  late  Mrs.  Eve. 

Again  Molly  sh/ieked,  and  something  dark  and  long 
and  sinuous  flew  ai:d  enveloped  her  neck  like  an  ana- 
conda. 

"Russian  sables,"  said  the  Kid,  pridefully,  enjoy- 
ing the  sight  of  Molly's  round  cheek  against  the  cling- 
ing fur.  "  The  real  thing.  They  don't  grow  any- 
thing in  Russia  too  good  for  you,  Moll." 

Molly  plunged  her  hands  into  the  muff,  overturned 
a  row  of  the  family  infants  and  flew  to  the  mirror. 
Hint  for  the  beauty  column.  To  make  bright  eyes, 
rosy  cheeks  and  a  bewitching  smile :  Recipe  —  one 
set  Russian  sables.     Apply. 

When  they  were  alone  Molly  became  aware  of  a 
small  cake  of  the  ice  of  common  sense  floating  down 
the  full  tide  of  her  happiness. 

"  You're  a  bird,  all  right,  Kid,"  she  admitted  grate- 
fully. "  I  never  had  any  furs  on  before  in  my  life. 
But  ain't  Russian  sables  awful  expensive?  Seems  to 
me  I've  heard  they  were." 

"  Have  I  ever  chucked  any  bargain-sale  stuff  at 
you,  Moll?"  asked  the  Kid,  with  calm  dignity. 
"  Did  you  ever  notice  me  leaning  on  the  remnant 
counter  or  peering  in  the  window  of  the  five-and-ten  ? 
Call  that  scarf  $250  and  the  muff  $175  and  you  won't 
make  any  mistake  about  the  price  of  Russian  sables. 


116  The  Trimmed  Lamp 

The  swell  goods  for  me.     Say,  they  look  fine  on  you, 
Moll." 

Molly  hugged  the  sables  to  her  bosom  in  rapture. 
And  then  her  smile  went  away  little  by  little,  and  she 
looked  the  Kid  straight  in  the  eye  sadly  and  steadily. 

He  knew  what  every  look  of  hers  meant;  and  he 
laughed  with  a  faint  flush  upon  his  face. 

"  Cut  it  out,"  he  said,  with  affectionate  roughness. 
"  I  told  you  I  was  done  with  that.  I  bought  'em  and 
paid  for  'em,  all  right,  with  my  own  money  ?  " 

"  Out  of  the  money  you  worked  for,  Kid  ?  Out  of 
$75  a  month?" 

"  Sure.  I  been  saving  up." 
Let's  see  —  saved  $425  in  eight  months,  Kid?" 
Ah,  let  up,"  said  the  Kid,  with  some  heat.  "  I 
had  some  money  when  I  went  to  work.  Do  you 
think  I've  been  holding  'em  up  again?  I  told  you 
I'd  quit.  They're  paid  for  on  the  square.  Put  'em 
on  and  come  out  for  a  walk." 

Molly  calmed  her  doubts.  Sables  are  soothing. 
Proud  as  a  queen  she  went  forth  in  the  streets  at  the 
Kid's  side.  In  all  that  region  of  low-lying  streets  Rus- 
sian sables  had  never  been  seen  before.  The  word  sped, 
and  doors  and  windows  blossomed  with  heads  eager  to 
see  the  swell  furs  Kid  Brady  had  given  his  girl.  All 
down  the  street  there  were  "  Oh's  "  and  "  Ah's,"  and 
the  reported  fabulous  sum  paid  for  the  sables  was 
passed  from  lip  to  lip,  increasing  as  it  went.     At  her 


Vanity  and  Some  Sables  117 

right  elbow  sauntered  the  Kid  with  the  air  of  princes. 
Work  had  not  diminished  his  love  of  pomp  and  show 
and  his  passion  for  the  costly  and  genuine.  On  a 
corner  they  saw  a  group  of  the  Stovepipe  Gang  loaf- 
ing, immaculate.  They  raised  their  hats  to  the 
Kid's  girl  and  went  on  with  their  calm,  unaccented 
palaver. 

Three  blocks  behind  the  admired  couple  strolled 
Detective  Ransom,  of  the  Central  office.  Ransom  was 
the  only  detective  on  the  force  who  could  walk  abroad 
with  safety  in  the  Stovepipe  district.  He  was  fair 
dealing  and  unafraid  and  went  there  with  the  hypothe- 
sis that  the  inhabitants  were  human.  Many  liked 
him,  and  now  and  then  one  would  tip  off  to  him  some- 
thing that  he  was  looking  for. 

"What's  the  excitement  down  the  street?"  asked 
Ransom  of  a  pale  youth  in  a  red  sweater. 

"  Dey're  out  rubberin'  at  a  set  of  buffalo  robes  Kid 
Brady  staked  his  girl  to,"  answered  the  youth. 
"  Some  say  he  paid  $900  for  de  skins.  Dey're  swell 
all  right  enough." 

"  I  hear  Brady  has  been  working  at  his  old  trade 
for  nearly  a  year,"  said  the  detective.  "  He  doesn't 
travel  with  the  gang  any  more,  does  he  ?  " 

"  He's  workin',  all  right,"  said  the  red  sweater, 
"  but  —  say,  sport,  are  you  trailin'  anything  in  the 
fur  line?  A  job  in  a  plumbin'  shop  don't  match  wid 
dem  skins  de  Kid's  girl's  got  on.' 


a 


118  The  Trimmed  Lamp 

Ransom  overtook  the  strolling  couple  on  an  empty 
street  near  the  river  bank.  He  touched  the  Kid's 
arm  from  behind. 

"  Let  me  see  you  a  moment,  Brady,"  lie  said, 
quietly.  His  eye  rested  for  a  second  on  the  long 
fur  scarf  thrown  stylishly  back  over  Molly's  left 
shoulder.  The  Kid,  with  his  old-time  police  hating 
frown  on  his  face,  stepped  a  yard  or  two  aside  with 
the  detective. 

"  Did  you  go  to  Mrs.  Hethcote's  on  West  7 — th 
street  yesterday  to  fix  a  leaky  water  pipe?  "  asked 
Ransom. 

"  I  did,"  said  the  Kid.     "  What  of  it?  " 

"  The  lady's  $1,000  set  of  Russian  sables  went  out 
of  the  house  about  the  same  time  you  did.  The  de- 
scription fits  the  ones  this  lady  has  on." 

"To  h  —  Harlem  with  you,"  cried  the  Kid, 
angrily.  "  You  know  I've  cut  out  that  sort  of  thing, 
Ransom.     I  bought  them  sables  yesterday  at — " 

The  Kid  stopped  short. 

"  I  know  you've  been  working  straight  lately,"  said 
Ransom.  "  I'll  give  you  every  chance.  I'll  go  with 
you  where  you  say  you  bought  the  furs  and  investi- 
gate. The  lady  can  wear  'em  along  with  us  and  no- 
body'll  be  on.     That's  fair,  Brady." 

"  Come  on,"  agreed  the  Kid,  hotly.  'And  then  he 
stopped  suddenly  in  his  tracks  and  looked  with  an  odd 
smile  at  Molly's  distressed  and  anxious  face. 


Vanity  and  Some  Sables  119 

"  No  use,"  he  said,  grimly.  "  They're  the  Heth- 
cote  sables,  all  right.  You'll  have  to  turn  'em  over, 
Moll,  but  they  ain't  too  good  for  you  if  they  cost 
a  million." 

Molly,  with  anguish  in  her  face,  hung  upon  the 
Kid's  arm. 

"  Oh,  Kiddy,  you've  broke  my  heart,"  she  said.  "  I 
was  so  proud  of  you  —  and  now  they'll  do  you  — 
and  where's  our  happiness  gone  ?  " 

"  Go  home,"  said  the  Kid,  wildly.  "  Come  on, 
Ransom  —  take  the  furs.  Let's  get  away  from  here. 
Wait  a  minute  —  I've  a  good  mind  to  —  no,  I'll  be 
d  —  if  I  can  do  it  —  run  along,  Moll  —  I'm  ready, 
Ransom." 

Around  the  corner  of  a  lumber-yard  came  Police- 
man Kohen  on  his  way  to  his  beat  along  the  river. 
The  detective  signed  to  him  for  assistance.  Kohen 
joined  the  group.     Ransom  explained. 

"  Sure,"  said  Kohen.  "  I  hear  about  those  saples 
dat  vas  stole.     You  say  you  have  dem  here  ?  " 

Policeman  Kohen  took  the  end  of  Molly's  late  scarf 
in  his  hands  and  looked  at  it  closely. 

"  Once,"  he  said,  "  I  sold  furs  in  Sixth  avenue. 
Yes,  dese  are  saples.  Dey  come  from  Alaska.  Dis 
scarf  is  vort  $12  and  dis  muff — " 

"  Biff ! "  came  the  palm  of  the  Kid's  powerful  hand 
upon  the  policeman's  mouth.  Kohen  staggered  and 
rallied.     Molly  screamed.     The  detective  threw  him- 


120  The  Trimmed  Lamp 

self  upon  Brady  and  with  Kohen's  aid  got  the  nippers 
on  his  wrist. 

"  The  scarf  is  vort  $12  and  the  muff  is  vort  $9," 
persisted  the  policeman.  "  Vot  is  dis  talk  about 
$1,000  saples?" 

The  Kid  sat  upon  a  pile  of  lumber  and  his  face 
turned  dark  red. 

"  Correct,  Solomonski !  "  he  declared,  viciously.  "  I 
paid  $21.50  for  the  set.  I'd  rather  have  got  six 
months  and  not  have  told  it.  Me,  the  swell  guy  that 
wouldn't  look  at  anything  cheap!  I'm  a  plain 
bluffer.  Moll  —  my  salary  couldn't  spell  sables  in 
Russian." 

Molly  cast  herself  upon  his  neck. 

"  What  do  I  care  for  all  the  sables  and  money  in 
the  world,"  she  cried.  "  It's  my  Kiddy  I  want.  Oh, 
you  dear,  stuck-up,  crazy  blockhead ! " 

"  You  can  take  dose  nippers  off,"  said  Kohen  to 
the  detective.  "  Before  I  leaf  de  station  de  report 
come  in  dat  de  lady  vind  her  saples  —  hanging  in  her 
wardrobe.  Young  man,  I  excuse  you  dat  punch  in 
my  vace  —  dis  von  time." 

Ransom  handed  Molly  her  furs.  Her  eyes  were 
smiling  upon  the  Kid.  She  wound  the  scarf  and 
threw  the  end  over  her  left  shoulder  with  a  duchess' 
grace. 

"  A  gouple  of  young  vools,"  said  Policeman  Kohen 
to  Ransom :  "  come  on  away." 


THE  SOCIAL  TRIANGLE 

A.T  the  stroke  of  six  Ikey  Snigglefritz  laid  down  his 
goose.  Ikey  was  a  tailor's  apprentice.  Are  there 
tailor's  apprentices  nowadays? 

At  any  rate,  Ikey  toiled  and  snipped  and  basted 
and  pressed  and  patched  and  sponged  all  day  in  the 
steamy  fetor  of  a  tailor-shop.  But  when  work  was 
done  Ikey  hitched  his  wagon  to  such  stars  as  his 
firmament  let  shine. 

It  was  Saturday  night,  and  the  boss  laid  twelve 
begrimed  and  begrudged  dollars  in  his  hand.  Ikey 
dabbled  discreetly  in  water,  donned  coat,  hat  and 
collar  with  its  frazzled  tie  and  chalcedony  pin,  and 
set  forth  in  pursuit  of  his  ideals. 

For  each  of  us,  when  our  day's  work  is  done,  must 
seek  our  ideal,  whether  it  be  love  or  pinochle  or  lob- 
ster a  la  Newburg,  or  the  sweet  silence  of  the  musty 
bookshelves. 

Behold  Ikey  as  he  ambles  up  the  street  beneath  the 
roaring  "  El "  between  the  rows  of  reeking  sweat- 
shops. Pallid,  stooping,  insignificant,  squalid,  doomed 
to  exist  forever  in  penury  of  body  and  mind,  yet, 
as  he  swings  his  cheap  cane  and  projects  the  noisome 

inhalations  from  his  cigarette,  you  perceive  that  he 

121 


122  The  Trimmed  Lamp 

nurtures  in  his  narrow  bosom  the  bacillus  of  society. 

Ikey's  legs  carried  him  to  and  into  that  famous 

place  of  entertainment  known  as  the  Cafe  Maginnis 

—  famous  because  it  was  the  rendezvous  of  Billy  Mc- 
Mahan,  the  greatest  man,  the  most  wonderful  man, 
Ikey  thought,  that  the  world  had  ever  produced. 

Billy  McMahan  was  the  district  leader.  Upon  him 
the  Tiger  purred,  and  his  hand  held  manna  to  scatter. 
Now,  as  Ikey  entered,  McMahan  stood,  flushed  and 
triumphant  and  mighty,  the  centre  of  a  huzzaing  con- 
course of  his  lieutenants  and  constituents.  It  seems 
there  had  been  an  election ;  a  signal  victory  had  been 
won ;  the  city  had  been  swept  back  into  line  by  a  re- 
sistless besom  of  ballots. 

Ikey  slunk  along  the  bar  and  gazed,  breath-quick- 
ened, at  his  idol. 

How  magnificent  was  Billy  McMahan,  with  his 
great,  smooth,  laughing  face ;  his  gray  eye,  shrewd  as 
a  chicken  hawk's ;  his  diamond  ring,  his  voice  like 
a  bugle  call,  his  prince's  air,  his  plump  and  active 
roll  of  money,  his  clarion  call  to  friend  and  comrade 

—  oh,  what  a  king  of  men  he  was  !  How  he  obscured 
his  lieutenants,  though  they  themselves  loomed  large 
and  serious,  blue  of  chin  and  important  of  mien,  with 
hands  buried  deep  in  the  pockets  of  their  short  over- 
coats !  But  Billy  —  oh,  what  small  avail  are  words 
to  paint  for  you  his  glory  as  seen  by  Ikey  Sniggle- 
fritz! 


The  Social  Triangle  123 

The  Cafe  Maginnis  rang  to  the  note  of  victory. 
The  white-coated  bartenders  threw  themselves  feat- 
fully  upon  bottle,  cork  and  glass.  From  a  score 
of  clear  Havanas  the  air  received  its  paradox  of 
clouds.  The  leal  and  the  hopeful  shook  Billy  Mc- 
Mahan's  hand.  And  there  was  born  suddenly  in  the 
worshipful  soul  of  Ikey  Snigglefritz  an  audacious, 
thrilling  impulse. 

He  stepped  forward  into  the  little  cleared  space  in 
which  majesty  moved,  and  held  out  his  hand. 

Billy  McMahan  grasped  it  unhesitatingly,  shook 
it  and  smiled. 

Made  mad  now  by  the  gods  who  were  about  to 
destroy  him,  Ikey  threw  away  his  scabbard  and 
charged  upon  Olympus. 

"  Have  a  drink  with  me,  Billy,"  he  said  familiarly, 
"  you  and  your  friends  ?  " 

"  Don't  mind  if  I  do,  old  man,"  said  the  great 
leader,  "  just  to  keep  the  ball  rolling." 

The  last  spark  of  Ikey's  reason  fled. 

"  Wine,"  he  called  to  the  bartender,  waving  a  trem- 
bling hand. 

The  corks  of  three  bottles  were  drawn ;  the  cham- 
pagne bubbled  in  the  long  row  of  glasses  set  upon 
the  bar.  Billy  McMahan  took  his  and  nodded,  with 
his  beaming  smile,  at  Ikey.  The  lieutenants  and  sat- 
ellites took  theirs  and  growled  "  Here's  to  you." 
Ikey  took  his  nectar  in  delirium.     All  drank. 


124  The  Trimmed  Lamp 

Ikey  threw  his  week's  wages  in  a  crumpled  roll 
upon  the  bar. 

"  C'rect,"  said  the  bartender,  smoothing  the  twelve 
one-dollar  notes.  The  crowd  surged  around  Billy 
McMahan  again.  Some  one  was  telling  how  Bran- 
nigan  fixed  'em  over  in  the  Eleventh.  Ikey  leaned 
against  the  bar  a  while,  and  then  went  out. 

He  went  down  Hester  street  and  up  Chrystie,  and 
down  Delancey  to  where  he  lived.  And  there  his 
women  folk,  a  bibulous  mother  and  three  dingy  sis- 
ters, pounced  upon  him  for  his  wages.  And  at  his 
confession  they  shrieked  and  objurgated  him  in  the 
pithy  rhetoric  of  the  locality. 

But  even  as  they  plucked  at  him  and  struck  him 
Ikey  remained  in  his  ecstatic  trance  of  joy.  His  head 
was  in  the  clouds ;  the  star  was  drawing  his  wagon. 
Compared  with  what  he  had  achieved  the  loss  of 
wages  and  the  bray  of  women's  tongues  were  slight 
affairs. 

He  had  shaken  the  hand  of  Billy  McMahan. 
****** 

Billy  McMahan  had  a  wife,  and  upon  her  visiting 
cards  was  engraved  the  name  "Mrs.  William  Dar- 
ragh  McMahan."  And  there  was  a  certain  vexation 
attendant  upon  these  cards ;  for,  small  as  they  were, 
there  were  houses  in  which  they  could  not  be  inserted. 
Billy  McMahan  was  a  dictator  in  politics,  a  four- 
walled  tower  in  business,  a  mogul,  dreaded,  loved  and 


The  Social  Triangle  125 

obeyed  among  his  own  people.  He  was  growing 
rich ;  the  daily  papers  had  a  dozen  men  on  his  trail  to 
chronicle  his  every  word  of  wisdom ;  he  had  been  hon- 
ored in  caricature  holding  the  Tiger  cringing  in 
leash. 

But  the  heart  of  Billy  was  sometimes  sore  within 
him.  There  was  a  race  of  men  from  which  he  stood 
apart  but  that  he  viewed  with  the  eye  of  Moses  look- 
ing over  into  the  promised  land.  He,  too,  had  ideals, 
even  as  had  Ikey  Snigglef ritz ;  and  sometimes,  hope- 
less of  attaining  them,  his  own  solid  success  was  as 
dust  and  ashes  in  his  mouth.  And  Mrs.  William  Dar- 
ragh  McMahan  wore  a  look  of  discontent  upon  her 
plump  but  pretty  face,  and  the  very  rustle  of  her 
silks  seemed  a  sigh. 

There  was  a  brave  and  conspicuous  assemblage  in 
the  dining  salon  of  a  noted  hostelry  where  Fashion 
loves  to  display  her  charms.  At  one  table  sat  Billy 
McMahan  and  his  wife.  Mostly  silent  they  were,  but 
the  accessories  they  enjoyed  little  needed  the  indorse- 
ment of  speech.  Mrs.  McMahan's  diamonds  were 
outshone  by  few  in  the  room.  The  waiter  bore  the 
costliest  brands  of  wine  to  their  table.  In  evening 
dress,  with  an  expression  of  gloom  upon  his  smooth 
and  massive  countenance,  you  would  look  in  vain  for 
a  more  striking  figure  than  Billy's. 

Four  tables  away  sat  alone  a  tall,  slender  man, 
-about  thirty,  with  thoughtful,  melancholy  eyes,  a  Van 


126  The  Trimmed  Lamp 

Dyke  beard  and  peculiarly  white,  thin  hands.  He 
was  dining  on  filet  mignon,  dry  toast  and  appolli- 
naris.  That  man  was  Cortlandt  Van  Duyckink,  a 
man  worth  eighty  millions,  who  inherited  and  held 
a  sacred  seat  in  the  exclusive  inner  circle  of  so- 
ciety. 

Billy  McMahan  spoke  to  no  one  around  him,  be- 
cause he  knew  no  one.  Van  Duyckink  kept  his  eyes 
on  his  plate  because  he  knew  that  every  one  present 
was  hungry  to  catch  his.  He  could  bestow  knight- 
hood and  prestige  by  a  nod,  and  he  was  chary  of 
creating  a  too  extensive  nobility. 

And  then  Billy  McMahan  conceived  and  accom- 
plished the  most  startling  and  audacious  act  of  his 
life.  He  rose  deliberately  and  walked  over  to  Cort- 
landt Van  Duyckink's  table  and  held  out  his  hand. 

"  Say,  Mr.  Van  Duyckink,"  he  said,  "  I've  heard 
you  was  talking  about  starting  some  reforms  among 
the  poor  people  down  in  my  district.  I'm  McMahan, 
you  know.  Say,  now,  if  that's  straight  I'll  do  all  I 
can  to  help  you.  And  what  I  says  goes  in  that  neck 
of  the  woods,  don't  it?  Oh,  say,  I  rather  guess  it 
does." 

Van  Duyckink's  rather  sombre  eyes  lighted  up. 
He  rose  to  his  lank  height  and  grasped  Billy  Mc- 
Mahan's  hand. 

"  Thank  you,  Mr.  McMahan,"  he  said,  in  his  deep, 
serious  tones.  "  I  have  been  thinking  of  doing  some 
work  of  that  sort.     I  shall  be  glad  of  your  assistance. 


The  Social  Triangle  127 

It  pleases  me  to  have  become  acquainted  with  you." 

Billy  walked  back  to  his  seat.  His  shoulder  was 
tingling  from  the  accolade  bestowed  by  royalty.  A 
hundred  eyes  were  now  turned  upon  him  in  envy  and 
new  admiration.  Mrs.  William  Darragh  McMahan 
trembled  with  ecstasy,  so  that  her  diamonds  smote  the 
eye  almost  with  pain.  And  now  it  was  apparent  that 
at  many  tables  there  were  those  who  suddenly  remem- 
bered that  they  enjoyed  Mr.  McMahan's  acquaint- 
ance. He  saw  smiles  and  bows  about  him.  He  be- 
came enveloped  in  the  aura  of  dizzy  greatness.  His 
campaign  coolness  deserted  him. 

"  Wine  for  that  gang !  "  he  commanded  the  waiter, 
pointing  with  his  finger.  "  Wine  over  there.  Wine 
to  those  three  gents  by  that  green  bush.  Tell  'em 
it's  on  me.     D n  it !     Wine  for  everybody !  " 

The  waiter  ventured  to  whisper  that  it  was  perhaps 
inexpedient  to  carry  out  the  order,  in  consideration  of 
the  dignity  of  the  house  and  its  custom. 

"  All  right,"  said  Billy,  "  if  it's  against  the  rules. 
I  wonder  if  'twould  do  to  send  my  friend  Van  Du/c- 
kink  a  bottle?  No?  Well,  it'll  flow  all  right  at  the 
caffy  to-night,  just  the  same.  It'll  be  rubber  boots 
for  anybody  who  comes  in  there  any  time  up  to  2 
A.  M." 

Billy  McMahan  was  happy. 

He  had  shaken  the  hand  of  Cortlandt  Van  Duyc- 

kink. 

*     *     * 


128  The  Trimmed  Lamp 

The  big  pale-gray  auto  with  its  shining  metal  work 
looked  out  of  place  moving  slowly  among  the  push 
carts  and  trash-heaps  on  the  lower  east  side.  So  did 
Cortlandt  Van  Duyckink,  with  his  aristocratic  face 
and  white,  thin  hands,  as  he  steered  carefully  between 
the  groups  of  ragged,  scurrying  youngsters  in  the 
streets.  And  so  did  Miss  Constance  Schuyler,  with 
her  dim,  ascetic  beauty,  seated  at  his  side. 

"  Oh,  Cortlandt,"  she  breathed,  "  isn't  it  sad  that 
human  beings  have  to  live  in  such  wretchedness  and 
poverty  ?  And  you  —  how  noble  it  is  of  you  to  think 
of  them,  to  give  your  time  and  money  to  improve  their 
condition ! " 

Van  Duyckink  turned  his  solemn  eyes  upon  her. 

"  It  is  little,"  he  said,  sadly,  "  that  I  can  do.  The 
question  is  a  large  one,  and  belongs  to  society.  But 
even  individual  effort  is  not  thrown  away.  Look, 
Constance!  On  this  street  I  have  arranged  to  build 
soup  kitchens,  where  no  one  who  is  hungry  will  be 
turned  away.  And  down  this  other  street  are  the  old 
buildings  that  I  shall  cause  to  be  torn  down  and  there 
erect  others  in  place  of  those  death-traps  of  fire  and 
disease." 

Down  Delancey  slowly  crept  the  pale-gray  auto. 
Away  from  it  toddled  coveys  of  wondering,  tangle- 
haired,  barefooted,  unwashed  children.  It  stopped 
before  a  crazy  brick  structure,  foul  and  awry. 

Van  Duyckink  alighted  to  examine  at  a  better  per- 


The  Social  Triangle  129 

spective  one  of  the  leaning  walls.  Down  the  steps  of 
the  building  came  a  young  man  who  seemed  to  epit- 
omize its  degradation,  squalor  and  infelicity  —  a  nar- 
row-chested, pale,  unsavory  young  man,  puffing  at  a 
cigarette. 

Obeying  a  sudden  impulse,  Van  Duyckink  stepped 
out  and  warmly  grasped  the  hand  of  what  seemed  to 
him  a  living  rebuke. 

"  I  want  to  know  you  people,"  he  said,  sincerely. 
"  I  am  going  to  help  you  as  much  as  I  can.  We  shall 
be  friends." 

As  the  auto  crept  carefully  away  Cortlandt  Van 
Duyckink  felt  an  unaccustomed  glow  about  his  heart. 
He  was  near  to  being  a  happy  man. 

He  had  shaken  the  hand  of  Ikey  Snigglefritz. 


THE  PURPLE  DRESS 

VVE  are  to  consider  the  shade  known  as  purple.  It 
is  a  color  justly  in  repute  among  the  sons  and  daugh- 
ters of  man.  Emperors  claim  it  for  their  especial  dye. 
Good  fellows  everywhere  seek  to  bring  their  noses  to 
the  genial  hue  that  follows  the  commingling  of  the  red 
and  blue.  We  say  of  princes  that  they  are  born 
to  the  purple ;  and  no  doubt  they  are,  for  the  colic 
tinges  their  faces  with  the  royal  tint  equally  with  the 
snub-nosed  countenance  of  a  woodchopper's  brat. 
All  women  love  it  —  when  it  is  the  fashion. 

And  now  purple  is  being  worn.  You  notice  it  on 
the  streets.  Of  course  other  colors  are  quite  stylish 
as  well  —  in  fact,  I  saw  a  lovely  thing  the  other  day 
in  olive  green  albatross,  with  a  triple-lapped  flounce 
skirt  trimmed  with  insert  squares  of  silk,  and  a  draped 
fichu  of  lace  opening  over  a  shirred  vest  and  double 
puff  sleeves  with  a  lace  band  holding  two  gathered 
frills  —  but  you  see  lots  of  purple  too.  Oh,  yes,  you 
do;  just  take  a  walk  down  Twenty-third  street  any 
afternoon. 

Therefore  Maida  —  the  girl  with  the  big  brown 

eyes  and  cinnamon-colored  hair  in  the  Bee-Hive  Store 

—  said  to  Grace  —  the  girl  with  the  rhinestone  brooch 

130 


The  Purple  Dress  131 

and  peppermint-pepsin  flavor  to  her  speech  — "  I'm 
going  to  have  a  purple  dress  —  a  tailor-made  purple 
dress  —  for  Thanksgiving." 

"  Oh,  are  you,"  said  Grace,  putting  away  some  7^ 
gloves  into  the  6f  box.  "  Well,  it's  me  for  red. 
You  see  more  red  on  Fifth  avenue.  And  the  men  all 
seem  to  like  it." 

"  I  like  purple  best,"  said  Maida.  "  And  old 
Schlegel  has  promised  to  make  it  for  $8.  It's  going 
to  be  lovely.  I'm  going  to  have  a  plaited  skirt  and 
a  blouse  coat  trimmed  with  a  band  of  galloon  under  a 
white  cloth  collar  with  two  rows  of  — " 

"  Sly  boots ! "  said  Grace  with  an  educated  wink. 

" —  soutache  braid  over  a  surpliced  white  vest ;  and 
a  plaited  basque  and  — " 

Sly  boots  —  sly  boots  !  "  repeated  Grace. 

i —  plaited  gigot  sleeves  with  a  drawn  velvet  ribbon 
over  an  inside  cuff.  What  do  you  mean  by  saying 
that?" 

"  You  think  Mr.  Ramsay  likes  purple.  I  heard 
him  say  yesterday  he  thought  some  of  the  dark  shades 
of  red  were  stunning." 

"  I  don't  care,"  said  Maida.  "  I  prefer  purple, 
and  them  that  don't  like  it  can  just  take  the  other 
side  of  the  street." 

Which  suggests  the  thought  that  after  all,  the  fol- 
lowers of  purple  may  be  subject  to  slight  delusions. 
Danger  is  near  when  a  maiden  thinks  she  can  wear 


132  The  Trimmed  Lamp 

purple  regardless  of  complexions  and  opinions;  and 
when  Emperors  think  their  purple  robes  will  wear  for- 
ever. 

Maida  had  saved  $18  after  eight  months  of  econ- 
omy; and  this  had  bought  the  goods  for  the  purple 
dress  and  paid  Schlegel  $4  on  the  making  of  it.  On 
the  day  before  Thanksgiving  she  would  have  just 
enough  to  pay  the  remaining  $4.  And  then  for  a 
holiday  in  a  new  dress  —  can  earth  offer  anything 
more  enchanting? 

Old  Bachman,  the  proprietor  of  the  Bee-Hive  Store, 
always  gave  a  Thanksgiving  dinner  to  his  employees. 
On  every  one  of  the  subsequent  364  days,  excusing 
Sundays,  he  would  remind  them  of  the  joys  of  the 
past  banquet  and  the  hopes  of  the  coming  ones,  thus 
inciting  them  to  increased  enthusiasm  in  work.  The 
dinner  was  given  in  the  store  on  one  of  the  long  tables 
in  the  middle  of  the  room.  They  tacked  wrapping 
paper  over  the  front  windows ;  and  the  turkeys  and 
other  good  things  were  brought  in  the  back  way  from 
the  restaurant  on  the  corner.  You  will  perceive  that 
the  Bee-Hive  was  not  a  fashionable  department  store, 
with  escalators  and  pompadours.  It  was  almost  small 
enough  to  be  called  an  emporium ;  and  you  could  act- 
ually go  in  there  and  get  waited  on  and  walk  out 
again.  And  always  at  the  Thanksgiving  dinners  Mr. 
Ramsay  — 

Oh,  bother !     I  should  have  mentioned  Mr.  Ramsay 


The  Purple  Dress  133 

first  of  all.     He  is  more  important  than  purple  or 
green,  or  even  the  red  cranberry  sauce. 

Mr.  Ramsay  was  the  head  clerk;  and  as  far  as  I 
am  concerned  I  am  for  him.  He  never  pinched  the 
girls'  arms  when  he  passed  them  in  dark  corners  of 
the  store ;  and  when  he  told  them  stories  when  business 
was  dull  and  the  girls  giggled  and  said :  "  Oh, 
pshaw ! "  it  wasn't  G.  Bernard  they  meant  at  all. 
Besides  being  a  gentleman,  Mr.  Ramsay  was  queer 
and  original  in  other  ways.  He  was  a  health  crank, 
and  believed  that  people  should  never  eat  anything 
that  was  good  for  them.  He  was  violently  opposed 
to  anybody  being  comfortable,  and  coming  in  out  of 
snow  storms,  or  wearing  overshoes,  or  taking  medicine, 
or  coddling  themselves  in  any  way.  Every  one  of  the 
ten  girls  in  the  store  had  little  pork-chop-and-fried- 
onion  dreams  every  night  of  becoming  Mrs.  Ramsay. 
For,  next  year  old  Bachman  was  going  to  take  him  in 
for  a  partner.  And  each  one  of  them  knew  that  if 
she  should  catch  him  she  would  knock  those  cranky 
health  notions  of  his  sky  high  before  the  wedding 
cake  indigestion  was  over. 

Mr.  Ramsay  was  master  of  ceremonies  at  the 
dinners.  Always  they  had  two  Italians  in  to 
play  a  violin  and  harp  and  had  a  little  dance  in  the 
store. 

And  here  were  two  dresses  being  conceived  to  charm 
Ramsay  —  one  purple  and  the  other  red.     Of  course, 


134  The  Trimmed  Lamp 

the  other  eight  girls  were  going  to  have  dresses  too, 
but  they  didn't  count.  Very  likely  they'd  wear  some 
shirt-waist-and-black-sldrt-affairs  —  nothing  as  re- 
splendent as  purple  or  red. 

Grace  had  saved  her  money,  too.  She  was  going  to 
buy  her  dress  ready-made.  Oh,  what's  the  use  of 
bothering  with  a  tailor  —  when  you've  got  a  figger 
it's  easy  to  get  a  fit  —  the  ready-made  are  intended  for 
a  perfect  figger  —  except  I  have  to  have  'em  all  taken 
in  at  the  waist  —  the  average  figger  is  so  large 
waisted. 

The  night  before  Thanksgiving  came.  Maida  hur- 
ried home,  keen  and  bright  with  the  thoughts  of  the 
blessed  morrow.  Her  thoughts  were  of  purple,  but 
they  were  white  themselves  —  the  joyous  enthusiasm 
of  the  young  for  the  pleasures  that  youth  must  have 
or  wither.  She  knew  purple  would  become  her,  and 
—  for  the  thousandth  time  she  tried  to  assure  herself 
that  it  was  purple  Mr.  Ramsay  said  he  liked  and  not 
red.  She  was  going  home  first  to  get  the  $4  wrapped 
in  a  piece  of  tissue  paper  in  the  bottom  drawer  of  her 
dresser,  and  then  she  was  going  to  pay  Schlegel  and 
take  the  dress  home  herself. 

Grace  lived  in  the  same  house.  She  occupied  the 
hall  room  above  Maida's. 

At  home  Maida  found  clamor  and  confusion.  The 
landlady's  tongue  clattering  sourly  in  the  halls  like  a 
churn  dasher  dabbling  in  buttermilk.  And  then  Grace 


The  Purple  Dress  135 

came  down  to  her  room  crying  with  eyes  as  red  as  any 
dress. 

"  She  says  I've  got  to  get  out,"  said  Grace.  "  The 
old  beast.  Because  I  owe  her  $4.  She's  put  my 
trunk  in  the  hall  and  locked  the  door.  I  can't  go 
anywhere  else.     I  haven't  got  a  cent  of  money." 

"  You  had  some  yesterday,"  said  Maida. 

"  I  paid  it  on  my  dress,"  said  Grace.  "  I  thought 
she'd  wait  till  next  week  for  the  rent." 

Sniffle,  sniffle,  sob,  sniffle. 

Out  came  —  out  it  had  to  come  —  Maida's  $4. 

"  You  blessed  darling,"  cried  Grace,  now  a  rain- 
bow instead  of  sunset.  "  I'll  pay  the  mean  old  thing 
and  then  I'm  going  to  try  on  my  dress.  I  think  it's 
heavenly.  Come  up  and  look  at  it.  I'll  pay  the 
money  back,  a  dollar  a  week  — honest  I  will." 

Thanksgiving. 

The  dinner  was  to  be  at  noon.  At  a  quarter  to 
twelve  Grace  switched  into  Maida's  room.  Yes,  she 
looked  charming.  Red  was  her  color.  Maida  sat  by 
the  window  in  her  old  cheviot  skirt  and  blue  waist 
darning  a  st  — .     Oh,  doing  fancy  work. 

"Why,  goodness  me!  ain't  you  dressed  yet?" 
shrilled  the  red  one.  "  How  does  it  fit  in  the  back? 
Don't  you  think  these  velvet  tabs  look  awful  swell? 
Why  ain't  you  dressed,  Maida?" 

"  My  dress  didn't  get  finished  in  time,"  said  Maida. 
"  I'm  not  going  to  the  dinner." 


136  The  Trimmed  Lamp 

"  That's  too  bad.  Why,  I'm  awfully  sorry  Maida. 
Why  don't  you  put  on  anything  and  come  along  — 
it's  just  the  store  folks,  you  know,  and  they  won't 
mind." 

"  I  was  set  on  my  purple,"  said  Maida.  "  If  I 
can't  have  it  I  won't  go  at  all.  Don't  bother  about 
me.  Run  along  or  you'll  be  late.  You  look  awful 
nice  in  red." 

At  her  window  Maida  sat  through  the  long  morning 
and  past  the  time  of  the  dinner  at  the  store.  In  her 
mind  she  could  hear  the  girls  shrieking  over  a  pull- 
bone,  could  hear  old  Bachman's  roar  over  his  own 
deeply-concealed  jokes,  could  see  the  diamonds  of  fat 
Mrs.  Bachman,  who  came  to  the  store  only  on  Thanks- 
giving days,  could  see  Mr.  Ramsay  moving  about, 
alert,  kindly,  looking  to  the  comfort  of  all. 

At  four  in  the  afternoon,  with  an  expressionless  face 
and  a  lifeless  air  she  slowly  made  her  way  to  Schlegel's 
shop  and  told  him  she  could  not  pay  the  $4  due  on  the 
dress. 

"  Gott !  "  cried  Schlegel,  angrily.  "  For  what  do 
you  look  so  glum?  Take  him  away.  He  is  ready. 
Pay  me  some  time.  Haf  I  not  seen  you  pass  mine 
shop  every  day  in  two  years?  If  I  make  clothes  is 
it  that  I  do  not  know  how  to  read  beoples  because? 
You  will  pay  me  some  time  when  you  can.  Take  him 
away.  He  is  made  goot ;  and  if  you  look  bretty  in 
him  all  right.     So.     Pay  me  when  you  can." 


The  Purple  Dress  137 

Maida  breathed  a  millionth  part  of  the  thanks  in 
her  heart,  and  hurried  away  with  her  dress.  As  she 
left  the  shop  a  smart  dash  of  rain  struck  upon  her 
face.     She  smiled  and  did  not  feel  it. 

Ladies  who  shop  in  carriages,  you  do  not  under- 
stand. Girls  whose  wardrobes  are  charged  to  the  old 
man's  account,  you  cannot  begin  to  comprehend  — 
you  could  not  understand  why  Maida  did  not  feel  the 
cold  dash  of  the  Thanksgiving  rain. 

At  five  o'clock  she  went  out  upon  the  street  wearing 
her  purple  dress.  The  rain  had  increased,  and  it  beat 
down  upon  her  in  a  steady,  wind-blown  pour.  People 
were  scurrying  home  and  to  cars  with  close-held  um- 
brellas and  tight  buttoned  raincoats.  Many  of  them 
turned  their  heads  to  marvel  at  this  beautiful,  serene, 
happy-eyed  girl  in  the  purple  dress  walking  through 
the  storm  as  though  she  were  strolling  in  a  garden 
under  summer  skies. 

I  say  you  do  not  understand  it,  ladies  of  the  full 
purse  and  varied  wardrobe.  You  do  not  know  what 
it  is  to  live  with  a  perpetual  longing  for  pretty 
things  —  to  starve  eight  months  in  order  to  bring 
a  purple  dress  and  a  holiday  together.  What 
difference  if  it  rained,  hailed,  blew,  snowed,  cy- 
cloned? 

Maida  had  no  umbrella  nor  overshoes.  She  had 
her  purple  dress  and  she  walked  abroad.  Let  the 
elements  do  their  worst.     A  starved  heart  must  have 


138  The  Trimmed  Lamp 

one  crumb  during  a  year.  The  rain  ran  down  and 
dripped  from  her  fingers. 

Some  one  turned  a  corner  and  blocked  her  way. 
She  looked  up  into  Mr.  Ramsay's  eyes,  sparkling  with 
admiration  and  interest. 

"  Why,  Miss  Maida,"  said  he,  "  you  look  simply 
magnificent  in  your  new  dress.  I  was  greatly  dis- 
appointed not  to  see  you  at  our  dinner.  And  of  all 
the  girls  I  ever  knew,  you  show  the  greatest  sense  and 
intelligence.  There  is  nothing  more  healthful  and 
invigorating  than  braving  the  weather  as  you  are 
doing.     May  I  walk  with  you  ?  " 

And  Maida  blushed  and  sneezed. 


THE  FOREIGN  POLICY  OF  COMPANY  99 

JOHN  BYRNES,  hose-cart  driver  of  Engine  Com- 
pany No.  99,  was  afflicted  with  what  his  comrades 
called  Japanitis. 

Byrnes  had  a  war  map  spread  permanently  upon 
a  table  in  the  second  story  of  the  engine-house,  and  he 
could  explain  to  you  at  any  hour  of  the  day  or  night 
the  exact  positions,  conditions  and  intentions  of  both 
the  Russian  and  Japanese  armies.  He  had  little  clus- 
ters of  pins  stuck  in  the  map  which  represented  the 
opposing  forces,  and  these  he  moved  about  from  day 
to  day  in  conformity  with  the  war  news  in  the  daily 
papers. 

Wherever  the  Japs  won  a  victory  John  Byrnes 
would  shift  his  pins,  and  then  he  would  execute  a  war 
dance  of  delight,  and  the  other  firemen  would  hear  him 
yell:  "Go  it,  you  blamed  little,  sawed-off,  huckle- 
berry-eyed, monkey-faced  hot  tamales!  Eat  'em  up, 
you  little  sleight-o'-hand,  bow-legged  bull  terriers  — 
give  'em  another  of  them  Yalu  looloos,  and  you'll  eat 
rice  in  St.  Petersburg.  Talk  about  your  Russians  — 
say,  wouldn't  they  give  you  a  painsky  when  it  comes 
to  a  scrapovitch?  " 

Not  even  on  the  fair  island  of  Nippon  was  there  a 

139 


140  -     The  Trimmed  Lamp 

more  enthusiastic  champion  of  the  Mikado's  men. 
Supporters  of  the  Russian  cause  did  well  to  keep  clear 
of  Engine-House  No.  99. 

Sometimes  all  thoughts  of  the  Japs  left  John 
Byrnes's  head.  That  was  when  the  alarm  of  fire  had 
sounded  and  he  was  strapped  in  his  driver's  seat  on 
the  swaying  cart,  guiding  Erebus  and  Joe,  the  finest 
team  in  the  whole  department  —  according  to  the 
crew  of  99. 

Of  all  the  codes  adopted  by  man  for  regulating  his 
actions  toward  his  fellow-mortals,  the  greatest  are 
these  —  the  code  of  King  Arthur's  Knights  of  the 
Round  Table,  the  Constitution  of  the  United  States 
and  the  unwritten  rules  of  the  New  York  Fire  De- 
partment. The  Round  Table  methods  are  no  longer 
practicable  since  the  invention  of  street  cars  and 
breach-of-promise  suits,  and  our  Constitution  is  being 
found  more  and  more  unconstitutional  every  day,  so 
the  code  of  our  firemen  must  be  considered  in  the  lead, 
with  the  Golden  Rule  and  JefFries's  new  punch  trying 
for  place  and  show. 

The  Constitution  says  that  one  man  is  as  good  as 
another;  but  the  Fire  Department  says  he  is  better. 
This  is  a  too  generous  theory,  but  the  law  will  not 
allow  itself  to  be  construed  otherwise.  All  of  which 
comes  perilously  near  to  being  a  paradox,  and  com- 
mends itself  to  the  attention  of  the  S.  P.  C.  A. 

One  of  the  transatlantic  liners  dumped  out  at  Ellis 


The  Foreign  Policy  of  Company  99     141 

Island  a  lump  of  protozoa  which  was  expected  to 
evolve  into  an  American  citizen.  A  steward  kicked 
him  down  the  gangway,  a  doctor  pounced  upon  his 
eyes  like  a  raven,  seeking  for  trachoma  or  ophthalmia ; 
he  was  hustled  ashore  and  ejected  into  the  city  in  the 
name  of  Liberty  —  perhaps,  theoretically,  thus  inocu- 
lating against  kingocracy  with  a  drop  of  its  own  virus. 
This  hypodermic  injection  of  Europeanism  wandered 
happily  into  the  veins  of  the  city  with  the  broad  grin 
of  a  pleased  child.  It  was  not  burdened  with  bag- 
gage, cares  or  ambitions.  Its  body  was  lithely  built 
and  clothed  in  a  sort  of  foreign  fustian;  its  face  was 
brightly  vacant,  with  a  small,  flat  nose,  and  was 
mostly  covered  by  a  thick,  ragged,  curling  beard  like 
the  coat  of  a  spaniel.  In  the  pocket  of  the  imported 
Thing  were  a  few  coins  —  denarii  —  scudi  —  ko- 
pecks —  pfennigs  —  pilasters  —  whatever  the  finan- 
cial nomenclature  of  his  unknown  country  may  have 
been. 

Prattling  to  himself,  always  broadly  grinning, 
pleased  by  the  roar  and  movement  of  the  barbarous 
city  into  which  the  steamship  cut-rates  had  shunted 
him,  the  alien  strayed  away  from  the  sea,  which  he 
hated,  as  far  as  the  district  covered  by  Engine  Com- 
pany No.  99.  Light  as  a  cork,  he  was  kept  bobbing 
along  by  the  human  tide,  the  crudest  atom  in  all  the 
silt  of  the  stream  that  emptied  into  the  reservoir  of 
Liberty. 


142  The  Trimmed  La?np 

While  crossing  Third  avenue  he  slowed  his  steps, 
enchanted  by  the  thunder  of  the  elevated  trains  above 
him  and  the  soothing  crash  of  the  wheels  on  the  cob- 
bles. And  then  there  was  a  new,  delightful  chord  in 
the  uproar  —  the  musical  clanging  of  a  gong  and  a 
great  shining  juggernaut  belching  fire  and  smoke,  that 
people  were  hurrying  to  see. 

This  beautiful  thing,  entrancing  to  the  eye,  dashed 
past,  and  the  protoplasmic  immigrant  stepped  into  the 
wake  of  it  with  his  broad,  enraptured,  uncomprehend- 
ing grin.  And  so  stepping,  stepped  into  the  path  of 
No.  99's  flying  hose-cart,  with  John  Byrnes  gripping, 
with  arms  of  steel,  the  reins  over  the  plunging  backs 
of  Erebus  and  Joe. 

The  unwritten  constitutional  code  of  the  fireman  has 
no  exceptions  or  amendments.  It  is  a  simple  thing 
—  as  simple  as  the  rule  of  three.  There  was  the  heed- 
less unit  in  the  right  of  way ;  there  was  the  hose-cart 
and  the  iron  pillar  of  the  elevated  railroad. 

John  Byrnes  swung  all  his  weight  and  muscle  on 
the  left  rein.  The  team  and  cart  swerved  that  way 
and  crashed  like  a  torpedo  into  the  pillar.  The  men 
on  the  cart  went  flying  like  skittles.  The  driver's 
strap  burst,  the  pillar  rang  with  the  shock,  and  John 
Byrnes  fell  on  the  car  track  with  a  broken  shoulder 
twenty  feet  away,  while  Erebus  —  beautiful,  raven- 
black,  best-loved  Erebus  —  lay  whickering  in  his  har- 
ness with  a  broken  leg. 


The  Foreign  Policy  of  Company  99     143 

In  consideration  for  the  feelings  of  .Engine  Com- 
pany No.  99  the  details  will  be  lightly  touched.  The 
company  does  not  like  to  be  reminded  of  that  day. 
There  was  a  great  crowd,  and  hurry  calls  were  sent 
in;  and  while  the  ambulance  gong  was  clearing  the 
way  the  men  of  No.  99  heard  the  crack  of  the  S.  P. 
C.  A.  agent's  pistol,  and  turned  their  heads  away,  not 
daring  to  look  toward  Erebus  again. 

When  the  firemen  got  back  to  the  engine-house  they 
found  that  one  of  them  was  dragging  by  the  collar 
the  cause  of  their  desolation  and  grief.  They  set  it 
in  the  middle  of  the  floor  and  gathered  grimly  about 
it.  Through  its  whiskers  the  calamitous  object  chat- 
tered effervescently  and  waved  its  hands. 

"  Sounds  like  a  seidlitz  powder,"  said  Mike  Dowl- 
ing,  disgustedly,  "  and  it  makes  me  sicker  than  one. 
Call  that  a  man !  —  that  hoss  was  worth  a  steamer 
full  of  such  two-legged  animals.  It's  a  immigrant  — 
that's  what  it  is." 

"  Look  at  the  doctor's  chalk  mark  on  its  coat,"  said 
Reilly,  the  desk  man.  "  It's  just  landed.  It  must  be 
a  kind  of  a  Dago  or  a  Hun  or  one  of  them  Finns,  I 
guess.  That's  the  kind  of  truck  that  Europe  un- 
loads onto  us." 

"  Think  of  a  thing  like  that  getting  in  the  way 
and  laying  John  up  in  hospital  and  spoiling  the  best 
fire  team  in  the  city,"  groaned  another  fireman.  "  It 
ought  to  be  taken  down  to  the  dock  and  drowned." 


144  The  Trimmed  Lamp 

"  Somebody  go  around  and  get  Sloviski,"  suggested 
the  engine  driver,  "  and  let's  see  what  nation  is  re- 
sponsible for  this  conglomeration  of  hair  and  head 
noises." 

Sloviski  kept  a  delicatessen  store  around  the  corner 
on  Third  avenue,  and  was  reputed  to  be  a  linguist. 

One  of  the  men  fetched  him  —  a  fat,  cringing  man, 
with  a  discursive  eye  and  the  odors  of  many  kinds  of 
meats  upon  him. 

"  Take  a  whirl  at  this  importation  with  your  jaw- 
breakers, Sloviski,"  requested  Mike  Dowling.  "  We 
can't  quite  figure  out  whether  he's  from  the  Hacken- 
sack  bottoms  or  Hongkong-on-the-Ganges." 

Sloviski  addressed  the  stranger  in  several  dialects, 
that  ranged  in  rhythm  and  cadence  from  the  sounds 
produced  by  a  tonsilitis  gargle  to  the  opening  of  a 
can  of  tomatoes  with  a  pair  of  scissors.  The  immi- 
grant replied  in  accents  resembling  the  uncorking  of 
a  bottle  of  ginger  ale. 

"  I  have  you  his  name,"  reported  Sloviski.  "  You 
shall  not  pronounce  it.  Writing  of  it  in  paper  is 
better."  They  gave  him  paper,  and  he  wrote.  "  De- 
metre  Svangvsk." 

"  Looks  like  short  hand,"  said  the  desk  man. 

"  He  speaks  some  language,"  continued  the  inter- 
preter, wiping  his  forehead,  "  of  Austria  and  mixed 
with  a  little  Turkish.  And,  den,  he  have  some  Mag- 
yar words  and  a  Polish  or  two,  and  many  like  the 


The  Foreign  Policy  of  Company  99     145 

Roumanian,  but  not  without  talk  of  one  tribe  in  Bess- 
arabia.    I  do  not  him  quite  understand." 

"  Would  you  call  him  a  Dago  or  a  Polocker,  or 
what  ? "  asked  Mike,  frowning  at  the  polyglot  de- 
scription. 

"  He  is  a  " —  answered  Sloviski  — "  he  is  a  —  I 
dink  he  come  from  —  I  dink  he  is  a  fool,"  he  con- 
cluded, impatient  at  his  linguistic  failure,  "  and  if 
you  pleases  I  will  go  back  at  mine  delicatessen." 

"  Whatever  he  is,  he's  a  bird,"  said  Mike  Dowling ; 
"  and  you  want  to  watch  him  fly." 

Taking  by  the  wing  the  alien  fowl  that  had  flut- 
tered into  the  nest  of  Liberty,  Mike  led  him  to  the 
door  of  the  engine-house  and  bestowed  upon  him  a 
kick  hearty  enough  to  convey  the  entire  animus  of 
Company  99.  Demetre  Svangvsk  hustled  away  down 
the  sidewalk,  turning  once  to  show  his  ineradicable 
grin  to  the  aggrieved  firemen. 

In  three  weeks  John  Byrnes  was  back  at  his  post 
from  the  hospital.  With  great  gusto  he  proceeded  to 
bring  his  war  map  up  to  date.  "  My  money  on  the 
Japs  every  time,"  he  declared.  "  Why,  look  at  them 
Russians  —  they're  nothing  but  wolves.  Wipe  'em 
out,  I  say  —  and  the  little  old  jiu  jitsu  gang  are  just 
the  cherry  blossoms  to  do  the  trick,  and  don't  you 
forget  it ! " 

The  second  day  after  Byrnes's  reappearance  came 
Demetre   Svangvsk,  the  unidentified,  to  the  engine- 


146  The  Trimmed  Lamp 

house,  with  a  broader  grin  than  ever.  He  managed 
to  convey  the  idea  that  he  wished  to  congratulate  the 
hose-cart  driver  on  his  recovery  and  to  apologize  for 
having  caused  the  accident.  This  he  accomplished  by 
so  many  extravagant  gestures  and  explosive  noises 
that  the  company  was  diverted  for  half  an  hour. 
Then  they  kicked  him  out  again,  and  on  the  next  day 
he  came  back  grinning.  How  or  where  he  lived  no 
one  knew.  And  then  John  Byrnes's  nine-year-old  son, 
Chris,  who  brought  him  convalescent  delicacies  from 
home  to  eat,  took  a  fancy  to  Svangvsk,  and  they  al- 
lowed him  to  loaf  about  the  door  of  the  engine-house 
occasionally. 

One  afternoon  the  big  drab  automobile  of  the  Dep- 
uty Fire  Commissioner  buzzed  up  to  the  door  of  No. 
99  and  the  Deputy  stepped  inside  for  an  informal  in- 
spection. The  men  kicked  Svangvsk  out  a  little 
harder  than  usual  and  proudly  escorted  the  Deputy 
around  99,  in  which  everything  shone  like  my  lady's 
mirror. 

The  Deputy  respected  the  sorrow  of  the  company 
concerning  the  loss  of  Erebus,  and  he  had  come  to 
promise  it  another  mate  for  Joe  that  would  do  him 
credit.  So  they  let  Joe  out  of  his  stall  and  showed 
the  Deputy  how  deserving  he  was  of  the  finest  mate 
that  could  be  in  horsedom. 

While  they  were  circling  around  Joe  confabbing, 
Chris  climbed  into  the  Deputy's  auto  and  threw  the 


The  Foreign  Policy  of  Company  99     147 

power  full  on.  The  men  heard  a  monster  puffing 
and  a  shriek  from  the  lad,  and  sprang  out  too  late. 
The  big  auto  shot  away,  luckily  taking  a  straight 
course  down  the  street.  The  boy  knew  nothing  of  its 
machinery ;  he  sat  clutching  the  cushions  and  howling. 
With  the  power  on  nothing  could  have  stopped  that 
auto  except  a  brick  house,  and  there  was  nothing  for 
Chris  to  gain  by  such  a  stoppage. 

Demetre  Svangvsk  was  just  coming  in  again  with  a 
grin  for  another  kick  when  Chris  played  his  merry 
little  prank.  While  the  others  sprang  for  the  door 
Demetre  sprang  for  Joe.  He  glided  upon  the  horse's 
bare  back  like  a  snake  and  shouted  something  at  him 
like  the  crack  of  a  dozen  whips.  One  of  the  firemen 
afterward  swore  that  Joe  answered  him  back  in  the 
same  language.  Ten  seconds  after  the  auto  started 
the  big  horse  was  eating  up  the  asphalt  behind  it  like 
a  strip  of  macaroni. 

Some  people  two  blocks  and  a  half  away  saw  the 
rescue.  They  said  that  the  auto  was  nothing  but  a 
drab  noise  with  a  black  speck  in  the  middle  of  it  for 
Chris,  when  a  big  bay  horse  with  a  lizard  lying  on 
its  back  cantered  up  alongside  of  it,  and  the  lizard 
reached  over  and  picked  the  black  speck  out  of  the 
noise. 

Only  fifteen  minutes  after  Svangvsk's  last  kicking 
at  the  hands  —  or  rather  the  feet  —  of  Engine  Com- 
pany No.  99  he  rode  Joe  back  through  the  door  with 


148  The  Trimmed  Lamp 

the  boy  safe,  but  acutely  conscious  of  the  licking  he 
was  going  to  receive. 

Svangvsk  slipped  to  the  floor,  leaned  his  head 
against  Joe's  and  made  a  noise  like  a  clucking  hen. 
Joe  nodded  and  whistled  loudly  through  his  nostrils, 
putting  to  shame  the  knowledge  of  Sloviski,  of  the 
delicatessen. 

John  Byrnes  walked  up  to  Svangvsk,  who  grinned, 
expecting  to  be  kicked.  Byrnes  gripped  the  out- 
lander  so  strongly  by  the  hand  that  Demetre  grinned 
anyhow,  conceiving  it  to  be  a  new  form  of  punishment. 

"  The  heathen  rides  like  a  Cossack,"  remarked  a 
fireman  who  had  seen  a  Wild  West  show  —  "  they're 
the  greatest  riders  in  the  world." 

The  word  seemed  to  electrify  Svangvsk.  He 
grinned  wider  than  ever. 

"  Yas  —  yas  —  me  Cossack,"  he  spluttered,  strik- 
ing his  chest. 

"  Cossack ! "  repeated  John  Byrnes,  thoughtfully, 
"  ain't  that  a  kind  of  a  Russian?  " 

*'  They're  one  of  the  Russian  tribes,  sure,"  said  the 
desk  man,  who  read  books  between  fire  alarms. 

Just  then  Alderman  Foley,  who  was  on  his  way 
home  and  did  not  know  of  the  runaway,  stopped  at 
the  door  of  the  engine-house  and  called  to  Byrnes : 

"  Hello  there,  Jimmy,  me  boy  —  how's  the  war 
coming  along?  Japs  still  got  the  bear  on  the  trot, 
have  they?  " 


The  Foreign  Policy  of  Company  99     149 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know,"  said  John  Byrnes,  argumenta- 
tively,  "  them  Japs  haven't  got  any  walkover.  You 
wait  till  Kuropatkin  gets  a  good  whack  at  'em  and 
they  won't  be  knee-high  to  a  puddle-ducksky." 


THE  LOST  BLEND 

SlNCE  the  bar  has  been  blessed  by  the  clergy,  and 
cocktails  open  the  dinners  of  the  elect,  one  may  speak 
of  the  saloon.  Teetotalers  need  not  listen,  if  they 
choose;  there  is  always  the  slot  restaurant,  where  a 
dime  dropped  into  the  cold  bouillon  aperture  will  bring 
forth  a  dry  Martini. 

Con  Lantry  worked  on  the  sober  side  of  the  bar  in 
Kenealy's  cafe.  You  and  I  stood,  one-legged  like 
geese,  on  the  other  side  and  went  into  voluntary 
liquidation  with  our  week's  wages.  Opposite  danced 
Con,  clean,  temperate,  clear-headed,  polite,  white- 
jacketed,  punctual,  trustworthy,  young,  responsible, 
and  took  our  money. 

The  saloon  (whether  blessed  or  cursed)  stood  in  one 
of  those  little  "  places  "  which  are  parallelograms  in- 
stead of  streets,  and  inhabited  by  laundries,  decayed 
Knickerbocker  families  and  Bohemians  who  have 
nothing  to  do  with  either. 

Over  the  cafe  lived  Kenealy  and  his  family.     His 

daughter  Katherine  had  eyes  of  dark  Irish  —  but  why 

should  you  be  told?     Be  content  with  your  Geraldine 

or  your  Eliza  Ann.     For  Con  dreamed  of  her;  and 

when  she  called  softly  at  the  foot  of  the  back  stairs 

150 


The  Lost  Blend  151 

for  the  pitcher  of  beer  for  dinner,  his  heart  went  up 
and  down  like  a  milk  punch  in  the  shaker.  Orderly 
and  fit  are  the  rules  of  Romance ;  and  if  you  hurl  the 
last  shilling  of  your  fortune  upon  the  bar  for  whiskey, 
the  bartender  shall  take  it,  and  marry  his  boss's 
daughter,  and  good  will  grow  out  of  it. 

But  not  so  Con.  For  in  the  presence  of  woman  he 
was  tongue-tied  and  scarlet.  He  who  would  quell  with 
his  eye  the  sonorous  youth  whom  the  claret  punch 
made  loquacious,  or  smash  with  lemon  squeezer  the 
obstreperous,  or  hurl  gutterward  the  cantankerous 
without  a  wrinkle  coming  to  his  white  lawn  tie,  when 
he  stood  before  woman  he  was  voiceless,  incoherent, 
stuttering,  buried  beneath  a  hot  avalanche  of  bashful- 
ness  and  misery.  What  then  was  he  before  Katherine? 
A  trembler,  with  no  word  to  say  for  himself,  a  stone 
without  blarney,  the  dumbest  lover  that  ever  babbled 
of  the  weather  in  the  presence  of  his  divinity. 

There  came  to  Kenealy's  two  sunburned  men,  Riley 
and  McQuirk.  They  had  conference  with  Kenealy; 
and  then  they  took  possession  of  a  back  room  which 
they  filled  with  bottles  and  siphons  and  jugs  and 
druggist's  measuring  glasses.  All  the  appurtenances 
and  liquids  of  a  saloon  were  there,  but  they  dispensed 
no  drinks.  All  day  long  the  two  sweltered  in  there, 
pouring  and  mixing  unknown  brews  and  decoctions 
from  the  liquors  in  their  store.  Riley  had  the  educa- 
tion, and  he  figured  on  reams  of  paper,  reducing  gal- 


152  The  Trimmed  Lamp 

Ions  to  ounces  and  quarts  to  fluid  drams.  McQuirk, 
a  morose  man  with  a  red  eye,  dashed  each  unsuccessful 
completed  mixture  into  the  waste  pipes  with  curses 
gentle,  husky  and  deep.  They  labored  heavily  and 
untiringly  to  achieve  some  mysterious  solution  like  two 
alchemists  striving  to  resolve  gold  from  the  elements. 

Into  this  back  room  one  evening  when  his  watch  was 
done  sauntered  Con.  His  professional  curiosity  had 
been  stirred  by  these  occult  bartenders  at  whose  bar 
none  drank,  and  who  daily  drew  upon  Kenealy's  store 
of  liquors  to  follow  their  consuming  and  fruitless  ex- 
periments. 

Down  the  back  stairs  came  Katherine  with  her  smile 
like  sunrise  on  Gweebarra  Bay. 

"  Good  evening,  Mr.  Lantry,"  says  she.  "  And 
what  is  the  news  to-day,  if  you  please  ?  " 

"  It  looks  like  r-rain,"  stammered  the  shy  one, 
backing  to  the  wall. 

"  It  couldn't  do  better,"  said  Katherine.  "  I'm 
thinking  there's  nothing  the  worse  off  for  a  little 
water."  In  the  back  room  Riley  and  McQuirk  toiled 
like  bearded  witches  over  their  strange  compounds. 
From  fifty  bottles  they  drew  liquids  carefully  meas- 
ured after  Riley's  figures,  and  shook  the  whole  to- 
gether in  a  great  glass  vessel.  Then  McQuirk  would 
dash  it  out,  with  gloomy  profanity,  and  they  would 
begin  again. 

"  Sit  down,"  said  Riley  to  Con,  "  and  I'll  tell  you. 


The  Lost  Blend  153 

"  Last  summer  me  and  Tim  concludes  that  an 
American  bar  in  this  nation  of  Nicaragua  would  pay. 
There  was  a  town  on  the  coast  where  there's  nothing 
to  eat  but  quinine  and  nothing  to  drink  but  rum. 
The  natives  and  foreigners  lay  down  with  chills  and 
get  up  with  fevers ;  and  a  good  mixed  drink  is  nature's 
remedy  for  all  such  tropical  inconveniences. 

"  So  we  lays  in  a  fine  stock  of  wet  goods  in  New 
York,  and  bar  fixtures  and  glassware,  and  we  sails  for 
that  Santa  Palma  town  on  a  lime  steamer.  On  the 
way  me  and  Tim  sees  flying  fish  and  plays  seven-up 
Avith  the  captain  and  steward,  and  already  begins  to 
feel  like  the  high-ball  kings  of  the  tropics  of  Capri- 
corn. 

"  When  we  gets  in  five  hours  of  the  country  that 
we  was  going  to  introduce  to  long  drinks  and  short 
change  the  captain  calls  us  over  to  the  starboard  bin- 
nacle and  recollects  a  few  things. 

"  '  I  forgot  to  tell  you,  boys,'  says  he,  c  that  Nica- 
ragua slapped  an  import  duty  of  48  per  cent,  ad 
valorem  on  all  bottled  goods  last  month.  The  Pres- 
ident took  a  bottle  of  Cincinnati  hair  tonic  by  mistake 
for  tobasco  sauce,  and  he's  getting  even.  Barrelled 
goods  is  free.' 

" '  Sorry  you  didn't  mention  it  sooner,' "  says  we. 
And  we  bought  two  forty-two  gallon  casks  from  the 
captain,  and  opened  every  bottle  we  had  and  dumped 
the  stuff  all  together  in  the  casks.     That  48  per  cent. 


154  The  Trimmed  Lamp 

would  have  ruined  us ;  so  we  took  the  chances  on  mak- 
ing that  $1,200  cocktail  rather  than  throw  the  stuff 
away. 

"  Well,  when  we  landed  we  tapped  one  of  the  bar- 
rels. The  mixture  was  something  heartrending.  It 
was  the  color  of  a  plate  of  Bowery  pea  soup,  and  it 
tasted  like  one  of  those  coffee  substitutes  your  aunt 
makes  you  take  for  the  heart  trouble  you  get  by  pick- 
ing losers.  We  gave  a  nigger  four  fingers  of  it  to 
try  it,  and  he  lay  under  a  cocoanut  tree  three  days 
beating  the  sand  with  his  heels  and  refused  to  sign  a 
testimonial. 

"  But  the  other  barrel !  Say,  bartender,  did  you 
ever  put  on  a  straw  hat  with  a  yellow  band  around 
it  and  go  up  in  a  balloon  with  a  pretty  girl  with 
$8,000,000  in  your  pocket  all  at  the  same  time? 
That's  what  thirty  drops  of  it  would  make  you  feel 
like.  With  two  fingers  of  it  inside  you  you  would 
bury  your  face  in  your  hands  and  cry  because  there 
wasn't  anything  more  worth  while  around  for  you  to 
lick  than  little  Jim  Jeffries.  Yes,  sir,  the  stuff  in  that 
second  barrel  was  distilled  elixir  of  battle,  money  and 
high  life.  It  was  the  color  of  gold  and  as  clear  as 
glass,  and  it  shone  after  dark  like  the  sunshine  was 
still  in  it.  A  thousand  years  from  now  you'll  get  a 
drink  like  that  across  the  bar. 

"  Well,  we  started  up  business  with  that  one  line 
of  drinks,  and  it  was  enough.     The  piebald  gentry  of 


The  Lost  Blend  155 

that  country  stuck  to  it  like  a  hive  of  bees.  If  that 
barrel  had  lasted  that  country  would  have  become  the 
greatest  on  earth.  When  we  opened  up  of  mornings 
we  had  a  line  of  Generals  and  Colonels  and  ex-Pres- 
idents and  revolutionists  a  block  long  waiting  to  be 
served.  We  started  in  at  50  cents  silver  a  drink. 
The  last  ten  gallons  went  easy  at  $5  a  gulp.  It  was 
wonderful  stuff.  It  gave  a  man  courage  and  ambition 
and  nerve  to  do  anything ;  at  the  same  time  he  didn't 
care  whether  his  money  was  tainted  or  fresh  from  the 
Ice  Trust.  When  that  barrel  was  half  gone  Nica- 
ragua had  repudiated  the  National  debt,  removed  the 
duty  on  cigarettes  and  was  about  to  declare  war  on 
the  United  States  and  England. 

"  'Twas  by  accident  we  discovered  this  king  of 
drinks,  and  'twill  be  by  good  luck  if  we  strike  it 
again.  For  ten  months  we've  been  trying.  Small 
lots  at  a  time,  we've  mixed  barrels  of  all  the  harmful 
ingredients  known  to  the  profession  of  drinking.  Ye 
could  have  stocked  ten  bars  with  the  whiskies,  bran- 
dies, cordials,  bitters,  gins  and  wines  me  and  Tim  have 
wasted.  A  glorious  drink  like  that  to  be  denied  to  the 
world!  'Tis  a  sorrow  and  a  loss  of  money.  The 
United  States  as  a  nation  would  welcome  a  drink  of 
the  sort,  and  pay  for  it." 

AH  the  while  McQuirk  had  been  carefully  measuring 
and  pouring  together  small  quantities  of  various  spir- 
its, as  Riley  called  them,  from  his  latest  pencilled 


156  The  Trimmed  Lamp 

prescription.  The  completed  mixture  was  of  a  vile, 
mottled  chocolate  color.  McQuirk  tasted  it,  and 
hurled  it,  with  appropriate  epithets,  into  the  waste 
sink. 

"  "Tis  a  strange  story,  even  if  true,"  said  Con. 
"  I'll  be  going  now  along  to  my  supper." 

"Take  a  drink,"  said  Riley.  "We've  all  kinds 
except  the  lost  blend." 

"  I  never  drink,"  said  Con,  "  anything  stronger 
than  water.  I  am  just  after  meeting  Miss  Katherine 
by  the  stairs.  She  said  a  true  word.  '  There's  not  any- 
thing,' says  she,  *  but  is  better  off  for  a  little  water.'  " 

When  Con  had  left  them  Riley  almost  felled  Mc- 
Quirk by  a  blow  on  the  back. 

"  Did  ye  hear  that?  "  he  shouted.  "  Two  fools  are 
we.  The  six  dozen  bottles  of  'pollinaris  we  had  on 
the  ship  —  ye  opened  them  yourself  —  which  barrel 
did  ye  pour  them  in  —  which  barrel,  ye  mudhead  ?  " 

"  I  mind,"  said  McQuirk,  slowly,  "  'twas  in  the 
second  barrel  we  opened.  I  mind  the  blue  piece  of 
paper  pasted  on  the  side  of  it." 

"  We've  got  it  now,"  cried  Riley.  "  'Twas  that 
we  lacked.  'Tis  the  water  that  does  the  trick. 
Everything  else  we  had  right.  Hurry,  man,  and  get 
two  bottles  of  'pollinaris  from  the  bar,  while  I  figure 
out  the  proportionments  with  me  pencil." 

An  hour  later  Con  strolled  down  the  sidewalk  to- 
ward Kenealy's  cafe.    Thus  faithful  employees  haunt, 


The  Lost  Blend  157 

during  their  recreation  hours,  the  vicinity  where  they 
labor,  drawn  by  some  mysterious  attraction. 

A  police  patrol  wagon  stood  at  the  side  door. 
Three  able  cops  were  half  carrying,  half  hustling 
Riley  and  McQuirk  up  its  rear  steps.  The  eyes  and 
faces  of  each  bore  the  bruises  and  cuts  of  sanguinary 
and  assiduous  conflict.  Yet  they  whooped  with 
strange  joy,  and  directed  upon  the  police  the  feeble 
remnants  of  their  pugnacious  madness. 

"  Began  fighting  each  other  in  the  back  room,"  ex- 
plained Kenealy  to  Con.  "  And  singing !  That  was 
worse.  Smashed  everything  pretty  much  up.  But 
they're  good  men.  They'll  pay  for  everything.  Try- 
ing to  invent  some  new  kind  of  cocktail,  they  was. 
I'll  see  they  come  out  all  right  in  the  morning." 

Con  sauntered  into  the  back  room  to  view  the  bat- 
tlefield. As  he  went  through  the  hall  Katherine  was 
just  coming  down  the  stairs. 

"  Good  evening  again,  Mr.  Lantry,"  said  she. 
"  And  is  there  no  news  from  the  weather  yet?  " 

"  Still  threatens  r-rain,"  said  Con,  slipping  past 
with  red  in  his  smooth,  pale  cheek. 

Riley  and  McQuirk  had  indeed  waged  a  great  and 
friendly  battle.  Broken  bottles  and  glasses  were 
everywhere.  The  room  was  full  of  alcohol  fumes ;  the 
floor  was  variegated  with  spirituous  puddles. 

On  the  table  stood  a  32-ounce  glass  graduated 
measure.     In  the  bottom  of  it  were  two  tablespoonfuls 


158  The  Trimmed  Lamp 

of  liquid  —  a  bright  golden  liquid  that  seemed  to  hold 
the  sunshine  a  prisoner  in  its  auriferous  depths. 

Con  smelled  it.     He  tasted  it.     He  drank  it. 

As  he  returned  through  the  hall  Katherine  was  just 
going  up  the  stairs. 

"  No  news  yet,  Mr.  Lantry?  "  she  asked  with  her 
teasing  laugh. 

Con  lifted  her  clear  from  the  floor  and  held  her 
there. 

"  The  news  is,"  he  said,  "  that  we're  to  be  married." 

"  Put  me  down,  sir!  "  she  cried  indignantly,  "  or  I 
will  —  Oh,  Con,  where,  oh,  wherever  did  you  get  the 
nerve  to  say  it?  " 


a  harlem  tragedy 
Harlem. 

Mrs.  Fink  has  dropped  into  Mrs.  Cassidy's  flat  one 
flight  below. 

"Ain't  it  a  beaut?  "  said  Mrs.  Cassidy. 

She  turned  her  face  proudly  for  her  friend  Mrs. 
Fink  to  see.  One  eye  was  nearly  closed,  with  a  great, 
greenish-purple  bruise  around  it.  Her  lip  was  cut 
and  bleeding  a  little  and  there  were  red  finger-marks 
on  each  side  of  her  neck. 

"  My  husband  wouldn't  ever  think  of  doing  that  to 
me,"  said  Mrs.  Fink,  concealing  her  envy. 

"  I  wouldn't  have  a  man,"  declared  Mrs.  Cassidy, 
"  that  didn't  beat  me  up  at  least  once  a  week.  Shows 
he  thinks  something  of  you.  Say !  but  that  last  dose 
Jack  gave  me  wasn't  no  homeopathic  one.  I  can  see 
stars  yet.  But  he'll  be  the  sweetest  man  in  town  for 
the  rest  of  the  week  to  make  up  for  it.  This  eye  is 
good  for  theater  tickets  and  a  silk  shirt  waist  at  the 
very  least." 

"  I  should  hope,"  said  Mrs.  Fink,  assuming  com- 
placency, "  that  Mr.  Fink  is  too  much  of  a  gentleman 
ever  to  raise  his  hand  against  me." 

"  Oh,  go  on,  Maggie !  "  said  Mrs.  Cassidy,  laughing 

159 


160  The  Trimmed  Lamp 

and  applying  witch  hazel,  "you're  only  jealous. 
Your  old  man  is  too  frapped  and  slow  to  ever  give 
you  a  punch.  He  just  sits  down  and  practises  physi- 
cal culture  with  a  newspaper  when  he  comes  home  — 
now  ain't  that  the  truth?" 

"  Mr.  Fink  certainly  peruses  of  the  papers  when  he 
comes  home,"  acknowledged  Mrs.  Fink,  with  a  toss  of 
her  head ;  "  but  he  certainly  don't  ever  make  no  Steve 
O'Donnell  out  of  me  just  to  amuse  himself  —  that's  a 
sure  thing." 

Mrs.  Cassidy  laughed  the  contented  laugh  of  the 
guarded  and  happy  matron.  With  the  air  of  Cor- 
nelia exhibiting  her  jewels,  she  drew  down  the 
collar  of  her  kimono  and  revealed  another  treasured 
bruise,  maroon-colored,  edged  with  olive  and  orange 
—  a  bruise  now  nearly  well,  but  still  to  memory 
dear. 

Mrs.  Fink  capitulated.  The  formal  light  in  her 
eye  softened  to  envious  admiration.  She  and  Mrs. 
Cassidy  had  been  chums  in  the  downtown  paper-box 
factory  before  they  had  married,  one  year  before. 
Now  she  and  her  man  occupied  the  flat  above  Mame 
and  her  man.  Therefore  she  could  not  put  on  airs 
with  Mame. 

"  Don't  it  hurt  when  he  soaks  you?  "  asked  Mrs. 
Fink,  curiously. 

"  Hurt !  " —  Mrs.  Cassidy  gave  a  soprano  scream  of 
delight.     "  Well,  say  —  did  you  ever  have  a  brick 


A  Harlem  Tragedy  161 

house  fall  on  you?  —  well,  that's  just  the  way  it  feels 
—  just  like  when  they're  digging  you  out  of  the  ruins. 
Jack's  got  a  left  that  spells  two  matinees  and  a  new 
pair  of  Oxfords  —  and  his  right !  —  well,  it  takes  a 
trip  to  Coney  and  six  pairs  of  openwork,  silk  lisle 
threads  to  make  that  good." 

"  But  what  does  he  beat  you  for?  "  inquired  Mrs. 
Fink,  with  wide-open  eyes. 

"  Silly !  "  said  Mrs.  Cassidy,  indulgently.  "  Why, 
because  he's  full.     It's  generally  on  Saturday  nights." 

"  But  what  cause  do  you  give  him?  "  persisted  the 
seeker  after  knowledge. 

"  Why,  didn't  I  marry  him  ?  Jack  comes  in  tanked 
up;  and  I'm  here,  ain't  I?  Who  else  has  he  got  a 
right  to  beat?  I'd  just  like  to  catch  him  once  beating 
anybody  else!  Sometimes  it's  because  supper  ain't 
ready;  and  sometimes  it's  because  it  is.  Jack  ain't 
particular  about  causes.  He  just  lushes  till  he  re- 
members he's  married,  and  then  he  makes  for  home 
and  does  me  up.  Saturday  nights  I  just  move  the 
furniture  with  sharp  corners  out  of  the  way,  so  I 
won't  cut  my  head  when  he  gets  his  work  in.  He's  got 
a  left  swing  that  jars  you!  Sometimes  I  take  the 
count  in  the  first  round ;  but  when  I  feel  like  having  a 
good  time  during  the  week  or  want  some  new  rags  I 
come  up  again  for  more  punishment.  That's  what  I 
done  last  night.  Jack  knows  I've  been  wanting  a  black 
silk  waist  for  a  month,  and  I  didn't  think  just  one 


162  The  Trimmed  Lamp 

black  eye  would  bring  it.  Tell  you  what,  Mag,  I'll 
bet  you  the  ice  cream  he  brings  it  to-night." 

Mrs.  Fink  was  thinking  deeply. 

"  My  Mart,"  she  said,  "  never  hit  me  a  lick  in  his 
life.  It's  just  like  you  said,  Mame;  he  comes  in 
grouchy  and  ain't  got  a  word  to  say.  He  never  takes 
me  out  anywhere.  He's  a  chair-warmer  at  home  for 
fair.  He  buys  me  things,  but  he  looks  so  glum  about 
it  that  I  never  appreciate  'em." 

Mrs.  Cassidy  slipped  an  arm  around  her  chum. 

"  You  poor  thing !  "  she  said.  "  But  everybody 
can't  have  a  husband  like  Jack.  Marriage  wouldn't 
be  no  failure  if  they  was  all  like  him.  These  discon- 
tented wives  you  hear  about  —  what  they  need  is  a 
man  to  come  home  and  kick  their  slats  in  once  a  week, 
and  then  make  it  up  in  kisses,  and  chocolate  creams. 
That'd  give  'em  some  interest  in  life.  What  I  want 
is  a  masterful  man  that  slugs  you  when  he's  jagged 
and  hugs  you  when  he  ain't  jagged.  Preserve  me 
from  the  man  that  ain't  got  the  sand  to  do  neither ! " 

Mrs.  Fink  sighed. 

The  hallways  were  suddenly  filled  with  sound.  The 
door  flew  open  at  the  kick  of  Mr.  Cassidy.  His  arms 
were  occupied  with  bundles.  Mame  flew  and  hung 
about  his  neck.  Her  sound  eye  sparkled  with  the  love 
light  that  shines  in  the  eye  of  the  Maori  maid  when 
she  recovers  consciousness  in  the  hut  of  the  wooer  who 
has  stunned  and  dragged  her  there. 


A  Harlem  Tragedy  163 

"  Hello,  old  girl !  "  shouted  Mr.  Cassidy.  He  shed 
his  bundles  and  lifted  her  off  her  feet  in  a  mighty  hug. 
"  I  got  tickets  for  Barnum  &  Bailey's,  and  if  you'll 
bust  the  string  of  one  of  them  bundles  I  guess  you'll 
find  that  silk  waist  —  why,  good  evening,  Mrs.  Fink 
—  I  didn't  see  you  at  first.  How's  old  Mart  coming 
along?  " 

"  He's  very  well,  Mr.  Cassidy  —  thanks,"  said  Mrs. 
Fink.  "  I  must  be  going  along  up  now.  Mart'll  be 
home  for  supper  soon.  I'll  bring  you  down  that  pat- 
tern you  wanted  to-morrow,  Mame." 

Mrs.  Fink  went  up  to  her  flat  and  had  a  little  cry. 
It  was  a  meaningless  cry,  the  kind  of  cry  that  only 
a  woman  knows  about,  a  cry  from  no  particular  cause, 
altogether  an  absurd  cry ;  the  most  transient  and 
the  most  hopeless  cry  in  the  repertory  of  grief.  Why 
had  Martin  never  thrashed  her?  He  was  as  big  and 
strong  as  Jack  Cassidy.  Did  he  not  care  for  her  at 
all?  He  never  quarrelled ;  he  came  home  and  lounged 
about,  silent,  glum,  idle.  He  was  a  fairly  good  pro- 
vider, but  he  ignored  the  spices  of  life. 

Mrs.  Fink's  ship  of  dreams  was  becalmed.  Her 
captain  ranged  between  plum  duff  and  his  hammock. 
If  only  he  would  shiver  his  timbers  or  stamp  his  foot 
on  the  quarter-deck  now  and  then !  And  she  had 
thought  to  sail  so  merrily,  touching  at  ports  in  the 
Delectable  Isles !  But  now,  to  vary  the  figure,  she  was 
ready  to  throw  up  the  sponge,  tired  out,  without  a 


164  The  Trimmed  Lamp 

scratch  to  show  for  all  those  tame  rounds  with  her 
sparring  partner.  For  one  moment  she  almost  hated 
Mame  —  Mame,  with  her  cuts  and  bruises,  her  salve 
of  presents  and  kisses,  her  stormy  voyage  with  her 
fighting,  brutal,  loving  mate. 

Mr.  Fink  came  home  at  7.  He  was  permeated  with 
the  curse  of  domesticity.  Beyond  the  portals  of  his 
cozy  home  he  cared  not  to  roam,  to  roam.  He  was 
the  man  who  had  caught  the  street  car,  the  anaconda 
that  had  swallowed  its  prey,  the  tree  that  lay  as  it 
had  fallen. 

"  Like  the  supper,  Mart?  "  asked  Mrs.  Fink,  who 
had  striven  over  it. 

"  M-m-m-yep,"  grunted  Mr.  Fink. 

After  supper  he  gathered  his  newspapers  to  read. 
He  sat  in  his  stocking  feet. 

Arise,  some  new  Dante,  and  sing  me  the  befitting 
corner  of  perdition  for  the  man  who  sitteth  in  the 
house  in  his  stockinged  feet.  Sisters  of  Patience  who 
by  reason  of  ties  or  duty  have  endured  it  in  silk, 
yarn,  cotton,  lisle  thread  or  woollen  —  does  not  the 
new  canto  belong? 

The  next  day  was  Labor  Day.  The  occupations  of 
Mr.  Cassidy  and  Mr.  Fink  ceased  for  one  passage 
of  the  sun.  Labor,  triumphant,  would  parade  and 
otherwise  disport  itself. 

Mrs.  Fink  took  Mrs.  Cassidy's  pattern  down  early. 
Mame  had  on  her  new  silk  waist.     Even  her  damaged 


A  Harlem  Tragedy  165 

eye  managed  to  emit  a  holiday  gleam.  Jack  was 
fruitfully  penitent,  and  there  was  a  hilarious  scheme 
for  the  day  afoot,  with  parks  and  picnics  and 
Pilsener  in  it. 

A  rising,  indignant  jealousy  seized  Mrs.  Fink  as 
she  returned  to  her  flat  above.  Oh,  happy  Mame,  with 
her  bruises  and  her  quick-following  balm!  But  was 
Mame  to  have  a  monopoly  of  happiness?  Surely 
Martin  Fink  was  as  good  a  man  as  Jack  Cassidy. 
Was  his  wife  to  go  always  unbelabored  and  unca- 
ressed?  A  sudden,  brilliant,  breathless  idea  came  to 
Mrs.  Fink.  She  would  show  Mame  that  there  were 
husbands  as  able  to  use  their  fists  and  perhaps  to  be 
as  tender  afterward  as  any  Jack. 

The  holiday  promised  to  be  a  nominal  one  with  the 
Finks.  Mrs.  Fink  had  the  stationary  washtubs  in  the 
kitchen  filled  with  a  two  weeks'  wash  that  had  been 
soaking  overnight.  Mr.  Fink  sat  in  his  stockinged 
feet  reading  a  newspaper.  Thus  Labor  Day  pre- 
saged to  speed. 

Jealousy  surged  high  in  Mrs.  Fink's  heart,  and 
higher  still  surged  an  audacious  resolve.  If  her  man 
would  not  strike  her  —  if  he  would  not  so  far  prove 
his  manhood,  his  prerogative  and  his  interest  in  con- 
jugal affairs,  he  must  be  prompted  to  his  duty. 

Mr.  Fink  lit  his  pipe  and  peacefully  rubbed  an 
ankle  with  a  stockinged  toe.  He  reposed  in  the  state 
of  matrimony  like  a  lump  of  unblended  suet  in  a  pud- 


166  The  Trimmed  Lamp 

ding.  This  was  his  level  Elysium  —  to  sit  at  ease 
vicariously  girdling  the  world  in  print  amid  the  wifely 
splashing  of  suds  and  the  agreeable  smells  of  break- 
fast dishes  departed  and  dinner  ones  to  come.  Many 
ideas  were  far  from  his  mind;  but  the  furthest  one 
was  the  thought  of  beating  his  wife.  • 

Mrs.  Fink  turned  on  the  hot  water  and  set  the 
washboards  in  the  suds.  Up  from  the  flat  below  came 
the  gay  laugh  of  Mrs.  Cassidy.  It  sounded  like  a 
taunt,  a  flaunting  of  her  own  happiness  in  the  face  of 
the  unslugged  bride  above.  Now  was  Mrs.  Fink's 
time. 

Suddenly  she  turned  like  a  fury  upon  the  man 
reading. 

"  You  lazy  loafer ! "  she  cried,  "  must  I  work  my 
arms  off  washing  and  toiling  for  the  ugly  likes  of 
you  ?     Are  you  a  man  or  are  you  a  kitchen  hound  ?  " 

Mr.  Fink  dropped  his  paper,  motionless  from  sur- 
prise. She  feared  that  he  would  not  strike  —  that 
the  provocation  had  been  insufficient.  She  leaped  at 
him  and  struck  him  fiercely  in  the  face  with  her 
clenched  hand.  In  that  instant  she  felt  a  thrill  of  love 
for  him  such  as  she  had  not  felt  for  many  a  day.  Rise 
up,  Martin  Fink,  and  come  into  your  kingdom!  Oh, 
she  must  feel  the  weight  of  his  hand  now  —  just  to 
show  that  he  cared  —  just  to  show  that  he  cared ! 

Mr.  Fink  sprang  to  his  feet  —  Maggie  caught  him 
again  on  the  jaw  with  a  wide  swing  of  her  other 


A  Harlem  Tragedy  167 

hand.  She  closed  her  eyes  in  that  fearful,  blissful 
moment  before  his  blow  should  come  —  she  whispered 
his  name  to  herself  —  she  leaned  to  the  expected 
shock,  hungry  for  it. 

In  the  flat  below  Mr.  Cassidy,  with  a  shamed  and 
contrite  face  was  powdering  Mame's  eye  in  prepara- 
tion for  their  junket.  From  the  flat  above  came  the 
sound  of  a  woman's  voice,  high-raised,  a  bumping, 
a  stumbling  and  a  shuffling,  a  chair  overturned  —  un- 
mistakable sounds  of  domestic  conflict. 

"  Mart  and  Mag  scrapping?  "  postulated  Mr.  Cas- 
sidy. "  Didn't  know  they  ever  indulged.  Shall  I 
trot  up  and  see  if  they  need  a  sponge  holder?  " 

One  of  Mrs.  Cassidy's  eyes  sparkled  like  a 
diamond.     The   other   twinkled    at   least   like   paste. 

"  Oh,  oh,"  she  said,  softly  and  without  apparent 
meaning,  in  the  feminine  ejaculatory  manner.  "  I 
wonder  if  —  I  wonder  if !  Wait,  Jack,  till  I  go  up 
and  see." 

Up  the  stairs  she  sped.  As  her  foot  struck  the 
hallway  above  out  from  the  kitchen  door  of  her  flat 
wildly  flounced  Mrs.  Fink. 

"  Oh,  Maggie,"  cried  Mrs.  Cassidy,  in  a  delighted 
whisper ;  "  did  he  ?     Oh,  did  he  ?  " 

Mrs.  Fink  ran  and  laid  her  face  upon  her  chum's 
shoulder  and  sobbed  hopelessly. 

Mrs.  Cassidy  took  Maggie's  face  between  her  hands 
and  lifted  it  gently.     Tear-stained  it  was,  flushing 


168  The  Trimmed  Lamp 

and  paling,  but  its  velvety,  pink-and-white,  becom- 
ingly freckled  surface  was  unscratched,  unbruised, 
unmarred  by  the  recreant  fist  of  Mr.  Fink. 

"  Tell  me,  Maggie,"  pleaded  Mame,  "  or  I'll  go  in 
there  and  find  out.  What  was  it?  Did  he  hurt  you 
—  what  did  he  do  ?  " 

Mrs.  Fink's  face  went  down  again  despairingly  on 
the  bosom  of  her  friend. 

"For  God's  sake  don't  open  that  door,  Mame," 
she  sobbed.  "  And  don't  ever  tell  nobody  —  keep  it 
under  your  hat.  He  —  he  never  touched  me,  and  — 
he's  —  oh,  Gawd  —  he's  washin'  the  clothes  —  he's 
washin'  the  clothes !  " 


'«  THE  GUILTY  PARTY  " 

A  RED'-HAIRED,  unshaven,  untidy  man  sat  in  a 
rocking  chair  by  a  window.  He  had  just  lighted  a 
pipe,  and  was  puffing  blue  clouds  with  great  satisfac- 
tion. He  had  removed  his  shoes  and  donned  a  pair  of 
blue,  faded  carpet-slippers.  With  the  morbid  thirst 
of  the  confirmed  daily  news  drinker,  he  awkwardly 
folded  back  the  pages  of  an  evening  paper,  eagerly 
gulping  down  the  strong,  black  headlines,  to  be  fol- 
lowed as  a  chaser  by  the  milder  details  of  the  smaller 
type. 

In  an  adjoining  room  a  woman  was  cooking  sup- 
per. Odors  from  strong  bacon  and  boiling  coffee 
contended  against  the  cut-plug  fumes  from  the  ves- 
pertine pipe. 

Outside  was  one  of  those  crowded  streets  of  the  east 
side,  in  which,  as  twilight  falls,  Satan  sets  up  his  re- 
cruiting office.  A  mighty  host  of  children  danced  and 
ran  and  played  in  the  street.  Some  in  rags,  some  in 
clean  white  and  beribboned,  some  wild  and  restless  as 
young  hawks,  some  gentle-faced  and  shrinking,  some 
shrieking  rude  and  sinful  words,  some  listening,  awed, 
but  soon,  grown  familiar,  to  embrace  —  here  were  the 

children  playing  in  the  corridors  of  the  House  of  Sin. 

169 


170  The  Trimmed  Lamp 

Above  the  playground  forever  hovered  a  great  bird. 
The  bird  was  known  to  humorists  as  the  stork.  But 
the  people  of  Chrystie  street  were  better  ornitholo- 
gists.    They  called  it  a  vulture. 

A  little  girl  of  twelve  came  up  timidly  to  the  man 
reading  and  resting  by  the  window,  and  said: 

"  Papa,  won't  you  play  a  game  of  checkers  with  me 
if  you  aren't  too  tired?  " 

The  red-haired,  unshaven,  untidy  man  sitting  shoe- 
less by  the  window  answered,  with  a  frown : 

"  Checkers.  No,  I  won't.  Can't  a  man  who  works 
hard  all  day  have  a  little  rest  when  he  comes  home? 
Why  don't  you  go  out  and  play  with  the  other  kids 
on  the  sidewalk?  " 

The  woman  who  was  cooking  came  to  the  door. 

"  John,"  she  said,  "  I  don't  like  for  Lizzie  to  play 
in  the  street.  They  learn  too  much  there  that  ain't 
good  for  'em.  She's  been  in  the  house  all  day  long. 
It  seems  that  you  might  give  up  a  little  of  your  time 
to  amuse  her  when  you  come  home." 

"  Let  her  go  out  and  play  like  the  rest  of  'em  if 
she  wants  to  be  amused,"  said  the  red-haired,  un- 
shaven, untidy  man,  "  and  don't  bother  me." 


"  You're  on,"  said  Kid  Mullaly.     "  Fifty  dollars 
to  $25  I  take  Annie  to  the  dance.     Put  up." 

The  Kid's  black  eyes  were  snapping  with  the  fire 


t( 


The  Guilty  Party  "  171 


of  the  baited  and  challenged.  He  drew  out  his 
"  roll  "  and  slapped  five  tens  upon  the  bar.  The 
three  or  four  young  fellows  who  were  thus  "  taken  " 
more  slowly  produced  their  stake.  The  bartender, 
ex-officio  stakeholder,  took  the  money,  laboriously 
wrapped  it,  recorded  the  bet  with  an  inch-long  pencil 
and  stuffed  the  whole  into  a  corner  of  the  cash  reg- 
ister. 

"  And,  oh,  what'll  be  done  to  you'll  be  a  plenty," 
said  a  bettor,  with  anticipatory  glee. 

"That's  my  lookout,"  said  the  "  Kid,"  sternly. 
"  Fill  'em  up  all  around,  Mike." 

After  the  round  Burke,  the  "  Kid's "  sponge, 
sponge-holder,  pal,  Mentor  and  Grand  Vizier,  drew 
him  out  to  the  bootblack  stand  at  the  saloon  corner, 
where  all  the  official  and  important  matters  of  the 
Small  Hours  Social  Club  were  settled.  As  Tony  pol- 
ished the  light  tan  shoes  of  the  club's  President  and 
Secretary  for  the  fifth  time  that  day,  Burke  spake 
words  of  wisdom  to  his  chief. 

"  Cut  that  blond  out,  *  Kid,'  "  was  his  advice,  "  or 
there'll  be  trouble.  What  do  you  want  to  throw  down 
that  girl  of  yours  for?  You'll  never  find  one  that'll 
freeze  to  you  like  Liz  has.  She's  worth  a  hallful  of 
Annies." 

"  I'm  no  Annie  admirer ! "  said  the  "  Kid,"  drop- 
ping a  cigarette  ash  on  his  polished  toe,  and  wiping 
it  off  on  Tony's  shoulder.     "  But  I  want  to  teach  Liz 


172  The  Trimmed  Lamp 

a  lesson.  She  thinks  I  belong  to  her.  She's  been 
bragging  that  I  daren't  speak  to  another  girl.  Liz 
is  all  right  —  in  some  ways.  She's  drinking  a  little 
too  much  lately.  And  she  uses  language  that  a  lady 
oughtn't." 

"  You're  engaged,  ain't  you  ?  "  asked  Burke. 

"  Sure.     We'll  get  married  next  year,  maybe." 

"  I  saw  you  make  her  drink  her  first  glass  of  beer," 
said  Burke.  "  That  was  two  years  ago,  when  she 
used  to  come  down  to  the  corner  of  Chrystie  bare- 
headed to  meet  you  after  supper.  She  was  a  quiet 
sort  of  a  kid  then,  and  couldn't  speak  without  blush- 
mg." 

"  She's  a  little  spitfire,  sometimes,  now,"  said  the 
Kid.  "  I  hate  jealousy.  That's  why  I'm  going  to 
the  dance  with  Annie.     It'll  teach  her  some  sense." 

"  Well,  you  better  look  a  little  out,"  were  Burke's 
last  words.  "  If  Liz  was  my  girl  and  I  was  to  sneak 
out  to  a  dance  coupled  up  with  an  Annie,  I'd  want  a 
suit  of  chain  armor  on  under  my  gladsome  rags,  all 
right." 

Through  the  land  of  the  stork-vulture  wandered 
Liz.  Her  black  eyes  searched  the  passing  crowds 
fierily  but  vaguely.  Now  and  then  she  hummed  bars 
of  foolish  little  songs.  Between  times  she  set  her 
small,  white  teeth  together,  and  spake  crisp  words 
that  the  east  side  has  added  to  language. 

Liz's  skirt  was  green  silk.     Her  waist  was  a  large 


"  The  Guilty  Party  "  173 

brown-and-pink  plaid,  well-fitting  and  not  without 
style.  She  wore  a  cluster  ring  of  huge  imitation 
rubies,  and  a  locket  that  banged  her  knees  at  the  bot- 
tom of  a  silver  chain.  Her  shoes  were  run  down  over 
twisted  high  heels,  and  were  strangers  to  polish.  Her 
hat  would  scarcely  have  passed  into  a  flour  barrel. 

The  "  Family  Entrance  "  of  the  Blue  Jay  Cafe  re- 
ceived her.  At  a  table  she  sat,  and  punched  the  but- 
ton with  the  air  of  milady  ringing  for  her  carriage. 
The  waiter  came  with  his  large  chinned,  low-voiced 
manner  of  respectful  familiarity.  Liz  smoothed  her 
silken  skirt  with  a  satisfied  wriggle.  She  made  the 
most  of  it.  Here  she  could  order  and  be  waited  upon. 
It  was  all  that  her  world  offered  her  of  the  preroga- 
tive of  woman. 

"  Whiskey,  Tommy,"  she  said  as  her  sisters  further 
uptown  murmur,  "  Champagne,  James." 

"  Sure,  Miss  Lizzie.     What'll  the  chaser  be?  " 

"  Seltzer.  And  say,  Tommy,  has  the  Kid  been 
around  to-day  ?  " 

"  Why,  no,  Miss  Lizzie,  I  haven't  saw  him  to-day." 

Fluently  came  the  "  Miss  Lizzie,"  for  the  Kid  was 
known  to  be  one  who  required  rigid  upholdment  of  the 
dignity  of  his  fiancee. 

"  Fm  lookin'  for  'm,"  said  Liz,  after  the  chaser  had 
sputtered  under  her  nose.  "  It's  got  to  me  that  he 
says  he'll  take  Annie  Karlson  to  the  dance.  Let  him. 
The  pink-eyed  white  rat!     I'm  lookin'  for  'm.     You 


174  The  Trimmed  Lamp 

know  me,  Tommy.  Two  years  me  and  the  Kid've 
been  engaged.  Look  at  that  ring.  Five  hundred,  he 
said  it  cost.  Let  him  take  her  to  the  dance.  What'll 
I  do?  I'll  cut  his  heart  out.  Another  whiskey, 
Tommy." 

"  I  wouldn't  listen  to  no  such  reports,  Miss  Lizzie," 
said  the  waiter  smoothly,  from  the  narrow  opening 
above  his  chin.  "  Kid  Mullaly's  not  the  guy  to  throw 
a  lady  like  you  down.     Seltzer  on  the  side?  " 

"  Two  years,"  repeated  Liz,  softening  a  little  to 
sentiment  under  the  magic  of  the  distiller's  art.  "  I 
always  used  to  play  out  on  the  street  of  evenin's  'cause 
there  was  nothin'  doin'  for  me  at  home.  For  a  long 
time  I  just  sat  on  doorsteps  and  looked  at  the  lights 
and  the  people  goin'  by.  And  then  the  Kid  came 
along  one  evenin'  and  sized  me  up,  and  I  was  mashed 
on  the  spot  for  fair.  The  first  drink  he  made  me 
take  I  cried  all  night  at  home,  and  got  a  lickin'  for 
makin'  a  noise.  And  now  —  say,  Tommy,  you  ever 
see  this  Annie  Karlson?  If  it  wasn't  for  peroxide  the 
chloroform  limit  would  have  put  her  out  long  ago. 
Oh,  I'm  lookin'  for  'm.  You  tell  the  Kid  if  he  comes 
in.  Me?  I'll  cut  his  heart  out.  Leave  it  to  me. 
Another  whiskey,  Tommy." 

A  little  unsteadily,  but  with  watchful  and  brilliant 
eyes,  Liz  walked  up  the  avenue.  On  the  doorstep  of 
a  brick  tenement  a  curly-haired  child  sat,  puzzling 
over    the    convolutions    of    a    tangled    string.     Liz 


"  The  Guilty  Party  "  175 

flopped  down  beside  her,  with  a  crooked,  shifting 
smile  on  her  flushed  face.  But  her  eyes  had  grown 
clear  and  artless  of  a  sudden. 

"  Let  me  show  you  how  to  make  a  cat's-cradle,  kid," 
she  said,  tucking  her  green  silk  skirt  under  her  rusty 
shoes. 

And  while  they  sat  there  the  lights  were  being 
turned  on  for  the  dance  in  the  hall  of  the  Small  Hours 
Social  Club.  It  was  the  bi-monthly  dance,  a  dress 
affair  in  which  the  members  took  great  pride  and 
bestirred  themselves  huskily  to  further  and  adorn. 

At  9  o'clock  the  President,  Kid  Mullaly,  paced 
upon  the  floor  with  a  lady  on  his  arm.  As  the  Lore- 
ley's  was  her  hair  golden.  Her  "  yes  "  was  softened 
to  a  "  yah,"  but  its  quality  of  assent  was  patent  to  the 
most  Milesian  ears.  She  stepped  upon  her  own  train 
and  blushed,  and  —  she  smiled  into  the  eyes  of  Kid 
Mullaly. 

And  then,  as  the  two  stood  in  the  middle  of  the 
waxed  floor,  the  thing  happened  to  prevent  which 
many  lamps  are  burning  nightly  in  many  studies  and 
libraries. 

Out  from  the  circle  of  spectators  in  the  hall 
leaped  Fate  in  a  green  silk  skirt,  under  the  nom  de 
guerre  of  "  Liz."  Her  eyes  were  hard  and  blacker 
than  jet.  She  did  not  scream  or  waver.  Most  un- 
womanly, she  cried  out  one  oath  —  the  Kid's  own 
favorite  oath  —  and  in  his  own  deep  voice ;  and  then 


176  The  Trimmed  Lamp 

while  the  Small  Hours  Social  Club  went  frantically  to 
pieces,  she  made  good  her  boast  to  Tommy,  the  waiter 
—  made  good  as  far  as  the  length  of  her  knife  blade 
and  the  strength  of  her  arm  permitted. 

And  next  came  the  primal  instinct  of  self-preser- 
vation —  or  was  it  self-annihilation,  the  instinct  that 
society  has  grafted  on  the  natural  branch? 

Liz  ran  out  and  down  the  street  swift  and  true  as 
a  woodcock  flying  through  a  grove  of  saplings  at 
dusk. 

And  then  followed  the  big  city's  biggest  shame,  its 
most  ancient  and  rotten  surviving  canker,  its  pollu- 
tion and  disgrace,  its  blight  and  perversion,  its  for- 
ever infamy  and  guilt,  fostered,  unreproved  and  cher- 
ished, handed  down  from  a  long-ago  century  of  the 
basest  barbarity  —  the  Hue  and  Cry.  Nowhere  but 
in  the  big  cities  does  it  survive,  and  here  most  of  all, 
where  the  ultimate  perfection  of  culture,  citizenship 
and  alleged  superiority  joins,  bawling,  in  the  chase. 

They  pursued  —  a  shrieking  mob  of  fathers,  moth- 
ers, lovers  and  maidens  —  howling,  yelling,  calling, 
whistling,  crying  for  blood.  Well  may  the  wolf  in 
the  big  city  stand  outside  the  door.  Well  may  his 
heart,  the  gentler,  falter  at  the  siege. 

Knowing  her  way,  and  hungry  for  her  surcease, 
she  darted  down  the  familiar  ways  until  at  last  her 
feet  struck  the  dull  solidity  of  the  rotting  pier.  And 
then  it  was  but  a  few  more  panting  steps  —  and  good 


(( 


The  Guilty  Party  "  177 


mother  East  River  took  Liz  to  her  bosom,  soothed  her 
muddily  but  quickly,  and  settled  in  five  minutes  the 
problem  that  keeps  lights  burning  o'  nights  in  thou- 
sands of  pastorates  and  colleges. 

******* 

It's  mighty  funny  what  kind  of  dreams  one  has 
sometimes.  Poets  call  them  visions,  but  a  vision  is 
only  a  dream  in  blank  verse.  I  dreamed  the  rest  of 
this  story. 

I  thought  I  was  in  the  next  world.  I  don't  know 
how  I  got  there ;  I  suppose  I  had  been  riding  on  the 
Ninth  avenue  elevated  or  taking  patent  medicine  or 
trying  to  pull  Jim  Jeffries's  nose,  or  doing  some  such 
little  injudicious  stunt.  But,  anyhow,  there  I  was, 
and  there  was  a  great  crowd  of  us  outside  the  court- 
room where  the  judgments  were  going  on.  And 
every  now  and  then  a  very  beautiful  and  imposing 
court-officer  angel  would  come  outside  the  door  and 
call  another  case. 

While  I  was  considering  my  own  worldly  sins  and 
wondering  whether  there  would  be  any  use  of  my  try- 
ing to  prove  an  alibi  by  claiming  that  I  lived  in  New 
Jersey,  the  bailiff  angel  came  to  the  door  and  sang 
out: 

"  Case  No.  99,852,743." 

Up  stepped  a  plain-clothes  man  —  there  were  lots 
of  'em  there,  dressed  exactly  like  preachers  and  hust- 
ling us  spirits  around  just  like  cops  do  on  earth  — 


178  The  Trimmed  Lamp 

and  by  the  arm  he  dragged  —  whom,  do  you  think? 
Why,  Liz! 

The  court  officer  took  her  inside  and  closed  the  door. 
I  went  up  to  Mr.  Fly-Cop  and  inquired  about  the  case. 

"  A  very  sad  one,"  says  he,  laying  the  points  of 
his  manicured  fingers  together.  "  An  utterly  incor- 
rigible girl.  I  am  Special  Terrestrial  Officer  the  Rev- 
erend Jones.  The  case  was  assigned  to  me.  The 
girl  murdered  her  fiance  and  committed  suicide.  She 
had  no  defense.  My  report  to  the  court  relates  the 
facts  in  detail,  all  of  which  are  substantiated  by  re- 
liable witnesses.  The  wages  of  sin  is  death.  Praise 
the  Lord." 

The  court  officer  opened  the  door  and  stepped  out. 

"Poor  girl,"  said  Special  Terrestrial  Officer  the 
Reverend  Jones,  with  a  tear  in  his  eye.  "  It  was  one 
of  the  saddest  cases  that  I  ever  met  with.  Of  course 
she  was  " 

"  Discharged,"  said  the  court  officer.  "  Come  here, 
Jonesy.  First  thing  you  know  you'll  be  switched  to 
the  pot-pie  squad.  How  would  you  like  to  be  on  the 
missionary  force  in  the  South  Sea  Islands  —  hey? 
Now,  you  quit  making  these  false  arrests,  or  you'll  be 
transferred  —  see?  The  guilty  party  you've  got  to 
look  for  in  this  case  is  a  red-haired,  unshaven,  untidy 
man,  sitting  by  the  window  reading,  in  his  stocking 
feet,  while  his  children  play  in  the  streets.  Get  a 
move  on  you." 

Now,  wasn't  that  a  silly  dream? 


ACCORDING  TO  THEIR  LIGHTS 

SOMEWHERE  in  the  depths  of  the  big  city,  where 
the  unquiet  dregs  are  forever  being  shaken  together, 
young  Murray  and  the  Captain  had  met  and  become 
friends.  Both  were  at  the  lowest  ebb  possible  to  their 
fortunes ;  both  had  fallen  from  at  least  an  interme- 
diate Heaven  of  respectability  and  importance,  and 
both  were  typical  products  of  the  monstrous  and  pe- 
culiar social  curriculum  of  their  overweening  and 
bumptious  civic  alma  mater. 

The  captain  was  no  longer  a  captain.  One  of 
those  sudden  moral  cataclysms  that  sometimes  sweep 
the  city  had  hurled  him  from  a  high  and  profit- 
able position  in  the  Police  Department,  ripping  off  his 
badge  and  buttons  and  washing  into  the  hands  of  his 
lawyers  the  solid  pieces  of  real  estate  that  his  fru- 
gality had  enabled  him  to  accumulate.  The  passing 
of  the  flood  left  him  low  and  dry.  One  month  after 
his  dishabilitation  a  saloon-keeper  plucked  him  by  the 
neck  from  his  free-lunch  counter  as  a  tabby  plucks  a 
strange  kitten  from  her  nest,  and  cast  him  asphalt- 
ward.  This  seems  low  enough.  But  after  that  he 
acquired  a  pair  of  cloth  top,  button  Congress  gaiters 

and  wrote   complaining  letters   to   the   newspapers. 

179 


180  The  Trimmed  Lamp 

And  then  he  fought  the  attendant  at  the  Municipal 
Lodging  House  who  tried  to  give  him  a  bath.  When 
Murray  first  saw  him  he  was  holding  the  hand  of  an 
Italian  woman  who  sold  apples  and  garlic  on  Essex 
street,  and  quoting  the  words  of  a  song  book  ballad. 

Murray's  fall  had  been  more  Luciferian,  if  less 
spectacular.  All  the  pretty,  tiny  little  kickshaws  of 
Gotham  had  once  been  his.  The  megaphone  man 
roars  out  at  you  to  observe  the  house  of  his  uncle  on 
a  grand  and  revered  avenue.  But  there  had  been  an 
awful  row  about  something,  and  the  prince  had  been 
escorted  to  the  door  by  the  butler,  which,  in  said  ave- 
nue, is  equivalent  to  the  impact  of  the  avuncular  shoe. 
A  weak  Prince  Hal,  without  inheritance  or  sword,  he 
drifted  downward  to  meet  his  humorless  Falstaff,  and 
to  pick  the  crusts  of  the  streets  with  him. 

One  evening  they  sat  on  a  bench  in  a  little  down- 
town park.  The  great  bulk  of  the  Captain,  which 
starvation  seemed  to  increase  —  drawing  irony  in- 
stead of  pity  to  his  petitions  for  aid  —  was  heaped 
against  the  arm  of  the  bench  in  a  shapeless  mass. 
His  red  face,  spotted  by  tufts  of  vermilion,  week-old 
whiskers  and  topped  by  a  sagging  white  straw  hat, 
looked,  in  the  gloom,  like  one  of  those  structures  that 
you  may  observe  in  a  dark  Third  avenue  window, 
challenging  your  imagination  to  say  whether  it  be 
something  recent  in  the  way  of  ladies'  hats  or  a  straw- 
berry shortcake.     A  tight-drawn  belt  —  last  relic  of 


According  to  Their  Lights  181 

his  official  spruceness  —  made  a  deep  furrow  in  his 
circumference.  The  Captain's  shoes  were  buttonless. 
In  a  smothered  bass  he  cursed  his  star  of  ill-luck. 

Murray,  at  his  side,  was  shrunk  into  his  dingy  and 
ragged  suit  of  blue  serge.  His  hat  was  pulled  low; 
he  sat  quiet  and  a  little  indistinct,  like  some  ghost 
that  had  been  dispossessed. 

"  I'm  hungry,"  growled  the  Captain  —  "  by  the  top 
sirloin  of  the  Bull  of  Bashan,  I'm  starving  to  death. 
Right  now  I  could  eat  a  Bowery  restaurant  clear 
through  to  the  stovepipe  in  the  alley.  Can't  you 
think  of  nothing,  Murray?  You  sit  there  with  your 
shoulders  scrunched  up,  giving  an  imitation  of  Regi- 
nald Vanderbilt  driving  his  coach  —  what  good  are 
them  airs  doing  you  now?  Think  of  some  place  we 
can  get  something  to  chew." 

"  You  forget,  my  dear  Captain,"  said  Murray, 
without  moving,  "  that  our  last  attempt  at  dining  was 
at  my  suggestion." 

"  You  bet  it  was,"  groaned  the  Captain,  "  you  bet 
your  life  it  was.  Have  you  got  any  more  like  that  to 
make  —  hey  ?  " 

"  I  admit  we  failed,"  sighed  Murray.  "  I  was  sure 
Malone  would  be  good  for  one  more  free  lunch  after 
the  way  he  talked  baseball  with  me  the  last  time  I 
spent  a  nickel  in  his  establishment." 

"  I  had  this  hand,"  said  the  Captain,  extending  the 
unfortunate  member  —  "I  had  this  hand  on  the  drum- 


182  The  Trimmed  Lamp 

stick  of  a  turkey  and  two  sardine  sandwiches  when 
them  waiters  grabbed  us." 

"  I  was  within  two  inches  of  the  olives,"  said  Mur- 
ray. "  Stuffed  olives.  I  haven't  tasted  one  in  a 
year." 

"  What'll  we  do?  "  grumbled  the  Captain.  "  We 
can't  starve." 

"  Can't  we?  "  said  Murray  quietly.  "  I'm  glad  to 
hear  that.     I  was  afraid  we  could." 

"  You  wait  here,"  said  the  Captain,  rising  heavily 
and  puffily  to  his  feet.  "  I'm  going  to  try  to  make 
one  more  turn.  You  stay  here  till  I  come  back,  Mur- 
ray. I  won't  be  over  half  an  hour.  If  I  turn  the 
trick  I'll  come  back  flush." 

He  made  some  elephantine  attempts  at  smartening 
his  appearance.  He  gave  his  fiery  mustache  a  heaven- 
ward twist;  he  dragged  into  sight  a  pair  of  black- 
edged  cuffs,  deepened  the  crease  in  his  middle  by  tight- 
ening his  belt  another  hole,  and  set  off,  jaunty  as  a 
zoo  rhinoceros,  across  the  south  end  of  the  park. 

When  he  was  out  of  sight  Murray  also  left  the 
park,  hurrying  swiftly  eastward.  He  stopped  at  a 
building  whose  steps  were  flanked  by  two  green  lights. 

"  A  police  captain  named  Maroney,"  he  said  to 
the  desk  sergeant,  "  was  dismissed  from  the  force 
after  being  tried  under  charges  three  years  ago.  I 
believe  sentence  was  suspended.  Is  this  man  wanted 
now  by  the  police  ?  " 


According  to  Their  Lights  183 

"  Why  are  ye  asking?  "  inquired  the  sergeant,  with 
a  frown. 

"  I  thought  there  might  be  a  reward  standing,"  ex- 
plained Murray,  easily.  "  I  know  the  man  well.  He 
seems  to  be  keeping  himself  pretty  shady  at  present. 
I  could  lay  my  hands  on  him  at  any  time.  If  there 
should  be  a  reward " 

"  There's  no  reward,"  interrupted  the  sergeant, 
shortly.  "  The  man's  not  wanted.  And  neither  are 
ye.  So,  get  out.  Ye  are  frindly  with  um,  and  ye 
would  be  selling  um.  Out  with  ye  quick,  or  I'll  give 
ye  a  start." 

Murray  gazed  at  the  officer  with  serene  and  virtu- 
ous dignity. 

"  I  would  be  simply  doing  my  duty  as  a  citizen  and 
gentleman,"  he  said,  severely,  "  if  I  could  assist  the 
law  in  laying  hold  of  one  of  its  offenders." 

Murray  hurried  back  to  the  bench  in  the  park.  He 
folded  his  arms  and  shrank  within  his  clothes  to  his 
ghost-like  presentment. 

Ten  minutes  afterward  the  Captain  arrived  at  the 
rendezvous,  windy  and  thunderous  as  a  dog-day  in 
Kansas.  His  collar  had  been  torn  away;  his  straw 
hat  had  been  twisted  and  battered ;  his  shirt  with  ox- 
blood  stripes  split  to  the  waist.  And  from  head  to 
knee  he  was  drenched  with  some  vile  and  ignoble 
greasy  fluid  that  loudly  proclaimed  to  the  nose  its 
component  leaven  of  garlic  and  kitchen  stuff. 


184  The  Trimmed  Lamp 

"  For  Heaven's  sake,  Captain,"  sniffed  Murray,  "  I 
doubt  that  I  would  have  waited  for  you  if  I  had  sus- 
pected you  were  so  desperate  as  to  resort  to  swill  bar- 
rels.    I " 

"  Cheese  it,"  said  the  Captain,  harshly.  "  I'm  not 
hogging  it  yet.  It's  all  on  the  outside.  I  went 
around  on  Essex  and  proposed  marriage  to  that  Ca- 
trina  that's  got  the  fruit  shop  there.  Now,  that  busi- 
ness could  be  built  up.  She's  a  peach  as  far  as  a 
Dago  could  be.  I  thought  I  had  that  senoreena 
mashed  sure  last  week.  But  look  what  she  done 
to  me!  I  guess  I  got  too  fresh.  Well  there's  an- 
other scheme  queered." 

"  You  don't  mean  to  say,"  said  Murray,  with  in- 
finite contempt,  "  that  you  would  have  married  that 
woman  to  help  yourself  out  of  your  disgraceful  trou- 
bles !  " 

"  Me?  "  said  the  Captain.  "  I'd  marry  the  Em- 
press of  China  for  one  bowl  of  chop  suey.  I'd  com- 
mit murder  for  a  plate  of  beef  stew.  I'd  steal  a 
wafer  from  a  waif.  I'd  be  a  Mormon  for  a  bowl  of 
chowder." 

"  I  think,"  said  Murray,  resting  his  head  on  his 
hands,  "  that  I  would  play  Judas  for  the  price  of 
one  drink  of  whiskey.  For  thirty  pieces  of  silver  I 
would  " 

"  Oh,  come  now ! "  exclaimed  the  Captain  in  dis- 
may.    "You  wouldn't  do  that,  Murray?     I  always 


According  to  Their  Lights  185 

thought  that  Kike's  squeal  on  his  boss  was  about  the 
lowest-down  play  that  ever  happened.  A  man  that 
gives  his  friend  away  is  worse  than  a  pirate." 

Through  the  park  stepped  a  large  man  scanning 
the  benches  where  the  electric  light  fell. 

"Is  that  you,  Mac?"  he  said,  halting  before  the 
derelicts.  His  diamond  stickpin  dazzled.  His  dia- 
mond-studded fob  chain  assisted.  He  was  big  and 
smooth  and  well  fed.  "  Yes,  I  see  it's  you,"  he  con- 
tinued. "  They  told  me  at  Mike's  that  I  might  find 
you  over  here.     Let  me  see  you  a  few  minutes,  Mac." 

The  Captain  lifted  himself  with  a  grunt  of  alac- 
rity. If  Charlie  Finnegan  had  come  down  in  the  bot- 
tomless pit  to  seek  him  there  must  be  something  do- 
ing. Charlie  guided  him  by  an  arm  into  a  patch  of 
shadow. 

"  You  know,  Mac,"  he  said,  "  they're  trying  In- 
spector Pickering  on  graft  charges." 

"  He  was  my  inspector,"  said  the  Captain. 

"  O'Shea  wants  the  job,"  went  on  Finnegan.  "  He 
must  have  it.  It's  for  the  good  of  the  organization. 
Pickering  must  go  under.  Your  testimony  will  do 
it.  He  was  your  *  man  higher  up '  when  you  were 
on  the  force.  His  share  of  the  boodle  passed  through 
your  hands.  You  must  go  on  the  stand  and  testify 
against  him." 

"  He  was  "  —  began  the  Captain. 

"  Wait  a  minute,"  said  Finnegan.     A  bundle  of 


186  The  Trimmed  Lamp 

yellowish  stuff  came  out  of  his  inside  pocket.  "  Five 
hundred  dollars  in  it  for  you.  Two-fifty  on  the  spot, 
and  the  rest  " 

"  He  was  my  friend,  I  say,"  finished  the  Captain. 
"  I'll  see  you  and  the  gang,  and  the  city,  and  the 
party  in  the  flames  of  Hades  before  I'll  take  the  stand 
against  Dan  Pickering.  I'm  down  and  out;  but  I'm 
no  traitor  to  a  man  that's  been  my  friend."  The 
Captain's  voice  rose  and  boomed  like  a  split  trom- 
bone. "  Get  out  of  this  park,  Charlie  Finnegan, 
where  us  thieves  and  tramps  and  boozers  are  your  bet- 
ters ;  and  take  your  dirty  money  with  you." 

Finnegan  drifted  out  by  another  walk.  The  Cap- 
tain returned  to  his  seat. 

"  I  couldn't  avoid  hearing,"  said  Murray,  drearily. 
"  I  think  you  are  the  biggest  fool  I  ever  saw." 

"  What  would  you  have  done  ?  "  asked  the  Cap- 
tain. 

"  Nailed  Pickering  to  the  cross,"  said  Mur- 
ray. 

"  Sonny,"  said  the  Captain,  huskily  and  without 
heat.  "  You  and  me  are  different.  New  York  is  di- 
vided into  two  parts  —  above  Forty-second  street,  and 
below  Fourteenth.  You  come  from  the  other  part. 
We  both  act  according  to  our  lights." 

An  illuminated  clock  above  the  trees  retaileid  the  in- 
formation that  it  lacked  the  half  hour  of  twelve. 
Both  men  rose  from  the  bench  and  moved  away  to- 


According  to  Their  LigMs  187 

gether  as  if  seized  by  the  same  idea.  They  left  the 
park,  struck  through  a  narrow  cross  street,  and  came 
into  Broadway,  at  this  hour  as  dark,  echoing  and  de- 
peopled  as  a  byway  in  Pompeii. 

Northward  they  turned;  and  a  policeman  who 
glanced  at  their  unkempt  and  slinking  figures  with- 
held the  attention  and  suspicion  that  he  would  have 
granted  them  at  any  other  hour  and  place.  For  on 
every  street  in  that  part  of  the  city  other  unkempt 
and  slinking  figures  were  shuffling  and  hurrying  to- 
ward a  converging  point  —  a  point  that  is  marked  by 
no  monument  save  that  groove  on  the  pavement  worn 
by  tens  of  thousands  of  waiting  feet. 

At  Ninth  street  a  tall  man  wearing  an  opera  hat 
alighted  from  a  Broadway  car  and  turned  his  face 
westward.  But  he  saw  Murray,  pounced  upon  him 
and  dragged  him  under  a  street  light.  The  Captain 
lumbered  slowly  to  the  corner,  like  a  wounded  bear, 
and  waited,  growling. 

"  Jerry !  "  cried  the  hatted  one.  "  How  fortunate ! 
I  was  to  begin  a  search  for  you  to-morrow.  The  old 
gentlemen  has  capitulated.  You're  to  be  restored 
to  favor.  Congratulate  you.  Come  to  the  office  in 
the  morning  and  get  all  the  money  you  want.  I've 
liberal  instructions  in  that  respect." 

"And  the  little  matrimonial  arrangement?"  said 
Murray,  with  his  head  turned  sidewise. 

"  Why  —  er  —  well,  of  course,  your  uncle  under- 


188  The  Trimmed  Lamp 

stands  —  expects  that  the  engagement  between  you 
Miss  Vanderhurst  shall  be  " 

"  Good  night,"  said  Murray,  moving  away. 

"  You  madman !  "  cried  the  other,  catching  his  arm. 
"  Would  you  give  up  two  millions  on  account  of  " 

"  Did  you  ever  see  her  nose,  old  man  ?  "  asked  Mur- 
ray, solemnly. 

"  But,  listen  to  reason,  Jerry.  Miss  Vanderhurst 
is  an  heiress,  and  " 

"  Did  you  ever  see  it  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  admit  that  her  nose  isn't " 

"  Good  night ! "  said  Murray.  "  My  friend  is 
waiting  for  me.  I  am  quoting  him  when  I  authorize 
you  to  report  that  there  is  *  nothing  doing.'  Good 
night." 

A  wriggling  line  of  waiting  men  extended  from 
a  door  in  Tenth  street  far  up  Broadway,  on  the  outer 
edge  of  the  pavement.  The  Captain  and  Murray  fell 
in  at  the  tail  of  the  quivering  millipede. 

"  Twenty  feet  longer  than  it  was  last  night,"  said 
Murray,  looking  up  at  his  measuring  angle  of  Grace 
Church. 

"  Half  an  hour,"  growled  the  Captain,  "  before  we 
get  our  punk." 

The  city  clocks  began  to  strike  12 ;  the  Bread  Line 
moved  forward  slowly,  its  leathern  feet  sliding  on  the 
stones  with  the  sound  of  a  hissing  serpent,  as  they  who 
had  lived  according  to  their  lights  closed  up  in  the 
rear. 


A  MIDSUMMER  KNIGHT'S  DREAM 

"  The  knights  are  dead; 
Their  swords  are  rust. 
Except  a  few  who  have  to  hust" 
he  all  the  time 
To  raise  the  dust." 

DEAR  READER :  It  was  summertime.  The  sun 
glared  down  upon  the  city  with  pitiless  ferocity. 
It  is  difficult  for  the  sun  to  be  ferocious  and  exhibit 
compunction  simultaneously.  The  heat  was  —  oh, 
bother  thermometers  !  —  who  cares  for  standard  meas- 
ures, anyhow?     It  was  so  hot  that  — 

The  roof  gardens  put  on  so  many  extra  waiters 
that  you  could  hope  to  get  your  gin  fizz  now  —  as 
soon  as  all  the  other  people  got  theirs.  The  hospi- 
tals were  putting  in  extra  cots  for  bystanders.  For 
when  little  woolly  dogs  loll  their  tongues  out  and  say 
"  woof,  woof ! "  at  the  fleas  that  bite  'em,  and  nerv- 
ous old  black  bombazine  ladies  screech  "  Mad  dog ! " 
and  policemen  begin  to  shoot,  somebody  is  going  to 
get  hurt.  The  man  from  Pompton,  N.  J.,  who  al- 
ways wears  an  overcoat  in  July,  had  turned  up  in  a 
Broadway  hotel  drinking  hot  Scotches  and  enjoying 
his  annual  ray  from  the  calcium.     Philanthropists 

189 


190  The  Trimmed  Lamp 

were  petitioning  the  Legislature  to  pass  a  bill  requir- 
ing builders  to  make  tenement  fire-escapes  more  com- 
modious, so  that  families  might  die  all  together  of 
the  heat  instead  of  one  or  two  at  a  time.  So  many 
men  were  telling  you  about  the  number  of  baths  they 
took  each  day  that  you  wondered  how  they  got  along 
after  the  real  lessee  of  the  apartment  came  back  to 
town  and  thanked  'em  for  taking  such  good  care  of 
it.  The  young  man  who  called  loudly  for  cold  beef 
and  beer  in  the  restaurant,  protesting  that  roast  pul- 
let and  Burgundy  was  really  too  heavy  for  such 
weather,  blushed  when  he  met  your  eye,  for  you  had 
heard  him  all  winter  calling,  in  modest  tones,  for  the 
same  ascetic  viands.  Soup,  pocketbooks,  shirt  waists, 
actors  and  baseball  excuses  grew  thinner.  Yes,  it  was 
summertime. 

A  man  stood  at  Thirty-fourth  street  waiting 
for  a  downtown  car.  A  man  of  forty,  gray-haired, 
pink-faced,  keen,  nervous,  plainly  dressed,  with  a  har- 
assed look  around  the  eyes.  He  wiped  his  forehead 
and  laughed  loudly  when  a  fat  man  with  an  outing 
look  stopped  and  spoke  with  him. 

No,  siree,"  he  shouted  with  defiance  and  scorn. 

None  of  your  old  mosquito-haunted  swamps  and 
skyscraper  mountains  without  elevators  for  me. 
When  I  want  to  get  away  from  hot  weather  I  know 
how  to  do  it.  New  York,  sir,  is  the  finest  summer  re- 
sort in  the  country.     Keep  in  the  shade  and  watch 


a 


A  Midsummer  Knight's  Dream      191 

your  diet,  and  don't  get  too  far  away  from  an  elec- 
tric fan.  Talk  about  your  Adirondacks  and  your 
Catskills  !  There's  more  solid  comfort  in  the  borough 
of  Manhattan  than  in  all  the  rest  of  the  country  to- 
gether. No,  siree!  No  tramping  up  perpendicular 
cliffs  and  being  waked  up  at  4  in  the  morning  by  a 
million  flies,  and  eating  canned  goods  straight  from 
the  city  for  me.  Little  old  New  York  will  take  a  few 
select  summer  boarders  ;  comforts  and  conveniences  of 
homes  —  that's  the  ad.  that  I  answer  every  time." 

"  You  need  a  vacation,"  said  the  fat  man,  looking 
closely  at  the  other.  "  You  haven't  been  away  from 
town  in  years.  Better  come  with  me  for  two  weeks, 
anyhow.  The  trout  in  the  Beaverkill  are  jumping  at 
anything  now  that  looks  like  a  fly.  Harding  writes 
me  that  he  landed  a  three-pound  brown  last  week." 

"  Nonsense !  "  cried  the  other  man.  "  Go  ahead,  if 
you  like,  and  boggle  around  in  rubber  boots  wear- 
ing yourself  out  trying  to  catch  fish.  When  I  want 
one  I  go  to  a  cool  restaurant  and  order  it.  I  laugh 
at  you  fellows  whenever  I  think  of  you  hustling 
around  in  the  heat  in  the  country  thinking  you  are 
having  a  good  time.  For  me  Father  Knickerbocker's 
little  improved  farm  with  the  big  shady  lane  running 
through  the  middle  of  it." 

The  fat  man  sighed  over  his  friend  and  went 
his  way.  The  man  who  thought  New  York  was  the 
greatest  summer  resort  in  the  country  boarded  a  car 


192  The  Trimmed  Lamp 

and  went  buzzing  down  to  his  office.  On  the  way  he 
threw  away  his  newspaper  and  looked  up  at  a  ragged 
patch  of  sky  above  the  housetops. 

"  Three  pounds  !  "  he  muttered,  absently.  "  And 
Harding  isn't  a  liar.  I  believe,  if  I  could  —  but  it's 
impossible  —  they've  got  to  have  another  month  — 
another  month  at  least." 

In  his  office  the  upholder  of  urban  midsummer  joys 
dived,  headforemost,  into  the  swimming  pool  of  busi- 
ness. Adkins,  his  clerk,  came  and  added  a  spray  of 
letters,  memoranda  and  telegrams. 

At  5  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  the  busy  man  leaned 
back  in  his  office  chair,  put  his  feet  on  the  desk  and 
mused  aloud : 

"  I  wonder  what  kind  of  bait  Harding  used." 
******* 

She  was  all  in  white  that  day ;  and  thereby  Comp- 
ton  lost  a  bet  to  Gaines.  Compton  had  wagered  she 
would  wear  light  blue,  for  she  knew  that  was  his 
favorite  color,  and  Compton  was  a  millionaire's  son, 
and  that  almost  laid  him  open  to  the  charge  of  bet- 
ting on  a  sure  thing.  But  white  was  her  choice,  and 
Gaines  held  up  his  head  with  twenty-five's  lordly 
air. 

The  little  summer  hotel  in  the  mountains  had  a 
lively  crowd  that  year.  There  were  two  or  three 
young  college  men  and  a  couple  of  artists  and  a 
young  naval  officer  on  one  side.     On  the  other  there 


A  Midsummer  Knight's  Dream      193 

were  enough  beauties  among  the  young  ladies  for  the 
correspondent  of  a  society  paper  to  refer  to  them  as 
a  "  bevy."  But  the  moon  among  the  stars  was  Mary 
Sewell.  Each  one  of  the  young  men  greatly  desired 
to  arrange  matters  so  that  he  could  pay  her  millinery 
bills,  and  fix  the  furnace,  and  have  her  do  away  with 
the  "  Sewell "  part  of  her  name  forever.  Those  who 
could  stay  only  a  week  or  two  went  away  hinting  at 
pistols  and  blighted  hearts.  But  Compton  stayed  like 
the  mountains  themselves,  for  he  could  afford  it. 
And  Gaines  stayed  because  he  was  a  fighter  and 
wasn't  afraid  of  millionaire's  sons,  and  —  well,  he 
adored  the  country. 

"What  do  you  think,  Miss  Mary?  "  he  said  once. 
"  I  knew  a  duffer  in  New  York  who  claimed  to  like 
it  in  the  summer  time.  Said  you  could  keep  cooler 
there,  than  you  could  in  the  woods.  Wasn't  he  an 
awful  silly  ?  I  don't  think  I  could  breathe  on  Broad- 
way after  the  1st  of  June." 

"  Mamma  was  thinking  of  going  back  week  after 
next,"  said  Miss  Mary  with  a  lovely  frown. 

"  But  when  you  think  of  it,"  said  Gaines,  "  there 
are  lots  of  jolly  places  in  town  in  the  summer.  The 
roof  gardens,  you  know,  and  the  —  er  —  the  roof 
gardens." 

Deepest  blue  was  the  lake  that  day  —  the  day  when 
they  had  the  mock  tournament,  and  the  men  rode 
clumsy  farm  horses  around  in  a  glade  in  the  woods 


194  The  Trimmed  Lamp 

and  caught  curtain  rings  on  the  end  of  a  lance.  Such 
fun! 

Cool  and  dry  as  the  finest  wine  came  the  breath  of 
the  shadowed  forest.  The  valley  below  was  a  vision 
seen  through  an  opal  haze.  A  white  mist  from  hid- 
den falls  blurred  the  green  of  a  hand's  breadth  of  tree 
tops  half-way  down  the  gorge.  Youth  made  merry 
hand-in-hand  with  young  summer.  Nothing  on 
Broadway  like  that. 

The  villagers  gathered  to  see  the  city  folks  pursue 
their  mad  drollery.  The  woods  rang  with  the  laugh- 
ter of  pixies  and  naiads  and  sprites.  Gaines  caught 
most  of  the  rings.  His  was  the  privilege  to  crown  the 
queen  of  the  tournament.  He  was  the  conquering 
knight  —  as  far  as  the  rings  went.  On  his  arm  he 
wore  a  white  scarf.  Compton  wore  light  blue.  She 
had  declared  her  preference  for  blue,  but  she  wore 
white  that  day. 

Gaines  looked  about  for  the  queen  to  crown 
her.  He  heard  her  merry  laugh,  as  if  from  the 
clouds.  She  had  slipped  away  and  climbed  Chimney 
Rock,  a  little  granite  bluff,  and  stood  there,  a 
white  fairy  among  the  laurels,  fifty  feet  above  their 
heads. 

Instantly  he  and  Compton  accepted  the  implied 
challenge.  The  bluff  was  easily  mounted  at  the  rear, 
but  the  front  offered  small  hold  to  hand  or  foot. 
Each  man  quickly   selected  his  route   and  began  to 


A  Midsummer  Knight's  Dream      195 

climb.  A  crevice,  a  bush,  a  slight  projection,  a  vine 
or  tree  branch  - —  all  of  these  were  aids  that  counted 
in  the  race.  It  was  all  foolery  —  there  was  no  stake ; 
but  there  was  youth  in  it,  cross  reader,  and  light 
hearts,  and  something  else  that  Miss  Clay  writes  so 
charmingly  about. 

Gaines  gave  a  great  tug  at  the  root  of  a  laurel  and 
pulled  himself  to  Miss  Mary's  feet.  On  his  arm  he 
carried  the  wreath  of  roses ;  and  while  the  villagers 
and  summer  boarders  screamed  and  applauded  below 
he  placed  it  on  the  queen's  brow. 

"  You  are  a  gallant  knight,"  said  Miss  Mary. 

"If  I  could  be  your  true  knight  always,"  began 
Gaines,  but  Miss  Mary  laughed  him  dumb,  for  Comp- 
ton  scrambled  over  the  edge  of  the  rock  one  minute 
behind  time. 

What  a  twilight  that  was  when  they  drove  back  to 

the  hotel!     The  opal  of  the  valley  turned  slowly  to 

purple,  the  dark  woods  framed  the  lake  as  a  mirror, 

the  tonic  air  stirred  the  very  soul  in  one.     The  first 

pale  stars  came  out  over  the  mountain  tops  where  yet 

a  faint  glow  of 

******* 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  Mr.  Gaines,"  said  Adkins. 

The  man  who  believed  New  York  to  be  the  finest 
summer  resort  in  the  world  opened  his  eyes  and  kicked 
over  the  mucilage  bottle  on  his  desk. 

"I  —  I  believe  I  was  asleep,"  he  said. 


196  The  Trimmed  Lamp 


a 


It's  the  heat,"  said  Adkins.  "  It's  something  aw- 
ful in  the  city  these  " 

"  Nonsense !  "  said  the  other.  "  The  city  beats  the 
country  ten  to  one  in  summer.  Fools  go  out  tramp- 
ing in  muddy  brooks  and  wear  themselves  out  trying 
to  catch  little  fish  as  long  as  your  finger.  Stay  in 
town  and  keep  comfortable  —  that's  my  idea." 

"  Some  letters  just  came,"  said  Adkins.  "  I 
thought  you  might  like  to  glance  at  them  before 
you  go." 

Let  us  look  over  his  shoulder  and  read  just  a  few 
lines  of  one  of  them: 

My  Dear,  Dear  Husband:  Just  received  your 
letter  ordering  us  to  stay  another  month.     .     . 

.  Rita's  cough  is  almost  gone.  .  .  . 
Johnny  has  simply  gone  wild  like  a  little  Indian 
.  .  .  Will  be  the  making  of  both  children  .  .  . 
work  so  hard,  and  I  know  that  your  business  can 
hardly  afford  to  keep  us  here  so  long  .  .  .  best 
man  that  ever  .  .  .  you  always  pretend  that  you 
like  the  city  in  summer  .  .  .  trout  fishing  that 
you  used  to  be  so  fond  of  .  .  .  and  all  to  keep 
us  well  and  happy  .  .  .  come  to  you  if  it  were 
not  doing  the  babies  so  much  good.  ...  I  stood 
last  evening  on  Chimney  Rock  in  exactly  the  same 
spot  where  I  was  when  you  put  the  wreath  of  roses 
on  my  head     .     .     .     through  all  the  world     .     .     . 


A  Midsummer  Knight's  Dream      197 

when  you  said  you  would  be  my  true  knight  .  .  . 
fifteen  years  ago,  dear,  just  think!  .  .  .  have 
always  been  that  to  me     .     .     .     ever  and  ever, 

Mary. 


The  man  who  said  he  thought  New  York  the  finest 
summer  resort  in  the  country  dropped  into  a  cafe  on 
his  way  home  and  had  a  glass  of  beer  under  an  elec- 
tric fan. 

"  Wonder  what  kind  of  a  fly  old  Harding  used," 
he  said  to  himself. 


THE  LAST  LEAF 

I  N  a  little  district  west  of  Washington  Square  the 
streets  have  run  crazy  and  broken  themselves  into 
small  strips  called  "  places."  These  "  places  "  make 
strange  angles  and  curves.  One  street  crosses  itself 
a  time  or  two.  An  artist  once  discovered  a  valuable 
possibility  in  this  street.  Suppose  a  collector  with  a 
bill  for  paints,  paper  and  canvas  should,  in  traversing 
this  route,  suddenly  meet  himself  coming  back,  with- 
out a  cent  having  been  paid  on  account ! 

So,  to  quaint  old  Greenwich  Village  the  art  people 
soon  came  prowling,  hunting  for  north  windows  and 
eighteenth-century  gables  and  Dutch  attics  and  low 
rents.  Then  they  imported  some  pewter  mugs  and  a 
chafing  dish  or  two  from  Sixth  avenue,  and  became  a 
"  colony." 

At  the  top  of  a  squatty,  three-story  brick  Sue  and 

Johnsy  had  their  studio.     "  Johnsy  "  was   familiar 

for  Joanna.     One  was  from  Maine ;  the  other  from 

California.     They  had  met  at  the  table  d'hote  of  an 

Eighth  street  "  Delmonico's,"  and  found  their  tastes 

in  art,  chicory  salad  and  bishop  sleeves  so  congenial 

that  the  joint  studio  resulted. 

198 


The  Last  Leaf  199 

That  was  in  May.  In  November  a  cold,  unseen 
stranger,  whom  the  doctors  called  Pneumonia,  stalked 
about  the  colony,  touching  one  here  and  there  with 
his  icy  fingers.  Over  on  the  east  side  this  ravager 
strode  boldly,  smiting  his  victims  by  scores,  but  his 
feet  trod  slowly  through  the  maze  of  the  narrow  and 
moss-grown  "  places." 

Mr.  Pneumonia  was  not  what  you  would  call  a 
chivalric  old  gentleman.  A  mite  of  a  little  woman 
with  blood  thinned  by  California  zephyrs  was  hardly 
fair  game  for  the  red-fisted,  short-breathed  old  duffer. 
But  Johnsy  he  smote;  and  she  lay,  scarcely  moving, 
on  her  painted  iron  bedstead,  looking  through  the 
small  Dutch  window-panes  at  the  blank  side  of  the 
next  brick  house. 

One  morning  the  busy  doctor  invited  Sue  into  the 
hallway  with  a  shaggy,  gray  eyebrow. 

"  She  has  one  chance  in  —  let  us  say,  ten,"  he  said ; 
as  he  shook  down  the  mercury  in  his  clinical  ther- 
mometer. "  And  that  chance  is  for  her  to  want  to 
live.  This  way  people  have  of  lining-up  on  the  side 
of  the  undertaker  makes  the  entire  pharmacopeia  look 
silly.  Your  little  lady  has  made  up  her  mind  that 
she's  not  going  to  get  well.  Has  she  anything  on  her 
mind?  " 

"  She  —  she  wanted  to  paint  the  Bay  of  Naples 
some  day,"  said  Sue. 

"  Paint  ?  —  bosh !     Has  she  anything  on  her  mind 


200  The  Trimmed  Lamp 

worth  thinking  about  twice  —  a  man,  for  instance  ?  " 

"  A  man?  "  said  Sue,  with  a  jewVharp  twang  in 
her  voice.  "  Is  a  man  worth  —  but,  no,  doctor ;  there 
is  nothing  of  the  kind. 

"  Well,  it  is  the  weakness,  then,"  said  the  doctor. 
"  I  will  do  all  that  science,  so  far  as  it  may  filter 
through  my  efforts,  can  accomplish.  But  whenever 
my  patient  begins  to  count  the  carriages  in  her  fun- 
eral procession  I  subtract  50  per  cent,  from  the  cura- 
tive power  of  medicines.  If  you  will  get  her  to  ask 
one  question  about  the  new  winter  styles  in  cloak 
sleeves  I  will  promise  you  a  one-in-five  chance  for  her, 
instead  of  one  in  ten." 

After  the  doctor  had  gone  Sue  went  into  the  work- 
room and  cried  a  Japanese  napkin  to  a  pulp.  Then 
she  swaggered  into  Johnsy's  room  with  her  drawing 
board,  whistling  ragtime. 

Johnsy  lay,  scarcely  making  a  ripple  under  the 
bedclothes,  with  her  face  toward  the  window.  Sue 
stopped  whistling,  thinking  she  was  asleep. 

She  arranged  her  board  and  began  a  pen-and-ink 
drawing  to  illustrate  a  magazine  story.  Young 
artists  must  pave  their  way  to  Art  by  drawing  pic- 
tures for  magazine  stories  that  young  authors  write 
to  pave  their  way  to  Literature. 

As  Sue  was  sketching  a  pair  of  elegant  horse- 
show  riding  trousers  and  a  monocle  on  the  figure  of 
the  hero,  an  Idaho  cowboy,  she  heard  a  low  sound, 


The  Last  Leaf  201 

several  times  repeated.  She  went  quickly  to  the  bed- 
side. 

Johnsy's  eyes  were  open  wide.  She  was  looking 
out  the  window  and  counting  —  counting  backward. 

"  Twelve,"  she  said,  and  a  little  later  "  eleven ; " 
and  then  "  ten,"  and  "  nine ;  "  and  then  "  eight  "  and 
"  seven,"  almost  together. 

Sue  looked  solicitously  out  the  window.  What  was 
there  to  count?  There  was  only  a  bare,  dreary  yard 
to  be  seen,  and  the  blank  side  of  the  brick  house 
twenty  feet  away.  An  old,  old  ivy  vine,  gnarled  and 
decayed  at  the  roots,  climbed  half  way  up  the  brick 
wall.  The  cold  breath  of  autumn  had  stricken  its 
leaves  from  the  vine  until  its  skeleton  branches  clung, 
almost  bare,  to  the  crumbling  bricks. 

"  What  is  it,  dear?  "  asked  Sue. 

"  Six,"  said  Johnsy,  in  almost  a  whisper. 
"  They're  falling  faster  now.  Three  days  ago  there 
were  almost  a  hundred.  It  made  my  head  ache  to 
count  them.  But  now  it's  easy.  There  goes  another 
one.     There  are  only  five  left  now." 

"  Five  what,  dear.     Tell  your  Sudie." 

"Leaves.  On  the  ivy  vine.  When  the  last  one 
falls  I  must  go,  too.  I've  known  that  for  three  days. 
Didn't  the  doctor  tell  you?  " 

"  Oh,  I  never  heard  of  such  nonsense,"  complained 
Sue,  with  magnificent  scorn.  "  What  have  old  ivy 
leaves  to  do  with  your  getting  well?     And  you  used 


202  The  Trimmed  Lamp 

to  love  that  vine  so,  you  naughty  girl.  Don't  be  a 
goosey.  Why,  the  doctor  told  me  this  morning  that 
your  chances  for  getting  well  real  soon  were  —  let's 
see  exactly  what  he  said  —  he  said  the  chances  were 
ten  to  one !  Why,  that's  almost  as  good  a  chance  as 
we  have  in  New  York  when  we  ride  on  the  street 
cars  or  walk  past  a  new  building.  Try  to  take  some 
broth  now,  and  let  Sudie  go  back  to  her  drawing,  so 
she  can  sell  the  editor  man  with  it,  and  buy  port  wine 
for  her  sick  child,  and  pork  chops  for  her  greedy 
self." 

"  You  needn't  get  any  more  wine,"  said  Johnsy, 
keeping  her  eyes  fixed  out  the  window.  "  There  goes 
another.  No,  I  don't  want  any  broth.  That  leaves 
just  four.  I  want  to  see  the  last  one  fall  before  it 
gets  dark.     Then  I'll  go,  too." 

"  Johnsy,  dear,"  said  Sue,  bending  over  her,  "  will 
you  promise  me  to  keep  your  eyes  closed,  and  not 
look  out  the  window  until  I  am  done  working?  I 
must  hand  those  drawings  in  by  to-morrow.  I  need 
the  light,  or  I  would  draw  the  shade  down." 

"  Couldn't  you  draw  in  the  other  room?  "  asked 
Johnsy,  coldly. 

"  I'd  rather  be  here  by  you,"  said  Sue.  "  Besides, 
I  don't  want  you  to  keep  looking  at  those  silly  ivy 
leaves." 

"  Tell  me  as  soon  as  you  have  finished,"  said 
Johnsy,  closing  her  eyes,  and  lying  white  and  still  as 


The  Last  Leaf  203 

a  fallen  statue,  "  because  I  want  to  see  the  last 
one  fall.  I'm  tired  of  waiting.  I'm  tired  of  think- 
ing. I  went  to  turn  loose  my  hold  on  everything, 
and  go  sailing  down,  down,  just  like  one  of  those 
poor,  tired  leaves." 

"  Try  to  sleep,"  said  Sue.  "  I  must  call  Behrman 
up  to  be  my  model  for  the  old  hermit  miner.  I'll  not 
be  gone  a  minute.  Don't  try  to  move  'till  I  come 
back." 

Old  Behrman  was  a  painter  who  lived  on  the  ground 
floor  beneath  them.  He  was  past  sixty  and  had  a 
Michael  Angelo's  Moses  beard  curling  down  from  the 
head  of  a  satyr  along  the  body  of  an  imp.  Behrman 
was  a  failure  in  art.  Forty  years  he  had  wielded  the 
brush  without  getting  near  enough  to  touch  the  hem 
of  his  Mistress's  robe.  He  had  been  always  about 
to  paint  a  masterpiece,  but  had  never  yet  begun  it. 
For  several  years  he  had  painted  nothing  except  now 
and  then  a  daub  in  the  line  of  commerce  or  advertis- 
ing. He  earned  a  little  by  serving  as  a  model  to  those 
young  artists  in  the  colony  who  could  not  pay  the 
price  of  a  professional.  He  drank  gin  to  excess,  and 
still  talked  of  his  coming  masterpiece.  For  the  rest 
he  was  a  fierce  little  old  man,  who  scoffed  terribly  at 
softness  in  any  one,  and  who  regarded  himself  as 
especial  mastiff-in-waiting  to  protect  the  two  young 
artists  in  the  studio  above. 

Sue  found  Behrman  smelling  strongly  of  juniper 


204  The  Trimmed  Lamp 

berries  in  his  dimly  lighted  den  below.  In  one  corner 
was  a  blank  canvas  on  an  easel  that  had  been  waiting 
there  for  twenty-five  years  to  receive  the  first  line  of 
the  masterpiece.  She  told  him  of  Johnsy's  fancy, 
and  how  she  feared  she  would,  indeed,  light  and 
fragile  as  a  leaf  herself,  float  away  when  her  slight 
hold  upon  the  world  grew  weaker. 

Old  Behrman,  with  his  red  eyes  plainly  streaming, 
shouted  his  contempt  and  derision  for  such  idiotic 
imaginings. 

"  Vass !  "  he  cried.  "  Is  dere  people  in  de  world 
mit  der  foolishness  to  die  because  leafs  dey  drop  off 
from  a  confounded  vine?  I  haf  not  heard  of  such  a 
thing.  No,  I  vill  not  bose  as  a  model  for  your  fool 
hermit-dunderhead.  Vy  do  you  allow  dot  silly  pusi- 
ness  to  come  in  der  prain  of  her?  Ach,  dot  poor  lettle 
Miss  Johnsy." 

"  She  is  very  ill  and  weak,"  said  Sue,  "  and  the 
fever  has  left  her  mind  morbid  and  full  of  strange 
fancies.  Very  well,  Mr.  Behrman,  if  you  do  not 
care  to  pose  for  me,  you  needn't.  But  I  think  you 
are  a  horrid  old  —  old  flibbertigibbet." 

"  You  are  just  like  a  woman ! "  yelled  Behrman. 
"Who  said  I  vill  not  bose?  Go  on.  I  come  mit 
you.  For  half  an  hour  I  haf  peen  trying  to  say  dot 
I  am  ready  to  bose.  Gott!  dis  is  not  any  blace  in 
which  one   so  goot  as   Miss  Yohnsy  shall   lie  sick. 


The  Last  Leaf  205 

Some  day  I  vill  baint  a  masterpiece,  and  ve  shall  all 
go  avay.     Gott !  yes." 

Johnsy  was  sleeping  when  they  went  upstairs.  Sue 
pulled  the  shade  down  to  the  window-sill,  and  mo- 
tioned Behrman  into  the  other  room.  In  there  they 
peered  out  the  window  fearfully  at  the  ivy  vine. 
Then  they  looked  at  each  other  for  a  moment  with- 
out speaking.  A  persistent,  cold  rain  was  falling, 
mingled  with  snow.  Behrman,  in  his  old  blue  shirt, 
took  his  seat  as  the  hermit-miner  on  an  upturned 
kettle  for  a  rock. 

When  Sue  awoke  from  an  hour's  sleep  the  next 
morning  she  found  Johnsy  with  dull,  wide-open  eyes 
staring  at  the  drawn  green  shade. 

"  Pull  it  up ;  I  want  to  see,"  she  ordered,  in  a 
whisper. 

Wearily  Sue  obeyed. 

But,  lo !  after  the  beating  rain  and  fierce  gusts  of 
wind  that  had  endured  through  the  livelong  night, 
there  yet  stood  out  against  the  brick  wall  one  ivy 
leaf.  It  was  the  last  on  the  vine.  Still  dark  green 
near  its  stem,  but  with  its  serrated  edges  tinted  with 
the  yellow  of  dissolution  and  decay,  it  hung  bravely 
from  a  branch  some  twenty  feet  above  the  ground. 

"  It  is  the  last  one,"  said  Johnsy.  "  I  thought  it 
would  surely  fall  during  the  night.  I  heard  the  wind. 
It  will  fall  to-day,  and  I  shall  die  at  the  same  time." 


206  The  Trimmed  Lamp 

"  Dear,  dear ! "  said  Sue,  leaning  her  worn  face 
down  to  the  pillow,  "  think  of  me,  if  you  won't  think 
of  yourself.     What  would  I  do  ?  " 

But  Johnsy  did  not  answer.  The  lonesomest  thing 
in  all  the  world  is  a  soul  when  it  is  making  ready 
to  go  on  its  mysterious,  far  journey.  The  fancy 
seemed  to  possess  her  more  strongly  as  one  by  one 
the  ties  that  bound  her  to  friendship  and  to  earth 
were  loosed. 

The  day  wore  away,  and  even  through  the  twilight 
they  could  see  the  lone  ivy  leaf  clinging  to  its  stem 
against  the  wall.  And  then,  with  the  coming  of  the 
night  the  north  wind  was  again  loosed,  while  the  rain 
still  beat  against  the  windows  and  pattered  down  from 
the  low  Dutch  eaves. 

When  it  was  light  enough  Johnsy,  the  merciless, 
commanded  that  the  shade  be  raised. 

The  ivy  leaf  was  still  there. 

Johnsy  lay  for  a  long  time  looking  at  it.  And  then 
she  called  to  Sue,  who  was  stirring  her  chicken  broth 
over  the  gas  stove. 

"  I've  been  a  bad  girl,  Sudie,"  said  Johnsy. 
"  Something  has  made  that  last  leaf  stay  there  to 
show  me  how  wicked  I  was.  It  is  a  sin  to  want  to 
die.  You  may  bring  me  a  little  broth  now,  and  some 
milk  with  a  little  port  in  it,  and  —  no ;  bring  me  a 
hand-mirror  first,  and  then  pack  some  pillows  about 
me,  and  I  will  sit  up  and  watch  you  cook." 


The  Last  Leaf  207 

An  hour  later  she  said. 

"  Sudie,  some  day  I  hope  to  paint  the  Bay  of 
Naples." 

The  doctor  came  in  the  afternoon,  and  Sue  had  an 
excuse  to  go  into  the  hallway  as  he  left. 

"  Even  chances,"  said  the  doctor,  taking  Sue's  thin, 
shaking  hand  in  his.  "With  good  nursing  you'll 
win.  And  now  I  must  see  another  case  I  have  down- 
stairs. Behrman,  his  name  is  —  some  kind  of  an 
artist,  I  believe.  Pneumonia,  too.  He  is  an  old, 
weak  man,  and  the  attack  is  acute.  There  is  no  hope 
for  him ;  but  he  goes  to  the  hospital  to-day  to  be  made 
more  comfortable." 

The  next  day  the  doctor  said  to  Sue :  "  She's  out 
of  danger.  You've  won.  Nutrition  and  care  now  — 
that's  all." 

And  that  afternoon  Sue  came  to  the  bed  where 
Johnsy  lay,  contentedly  knitting  a  very  blue  and  very 
useless  woolen  shoulder  scarf,  and  put  one  arm  around 
her,  pillows  and  all. 

"  I  have  something  to  tell  you,  white  mouse,"  she 
said.  "  Mr.  Behrman  died  of  pneumonia  to-day  in 
the  hospital.  He  was  ill  only  two  days.  The  janitor 
found  him  on  the  morning  of  the  first  day  in  his  room 
downstairs  helpless  with  pain.  His  shoes  and  cloth- 
ing were  wet  through  and  icy  cold.  They  couldn't 
imagine  where  he  had  been  on  such  a  dreadful  night. 
And  then  they  found  a  lantern,  still  lighted,  and  a 


208  The  Trimmed  Lamp 

ladder  that  had  been  dragged  from  its  place,  and 
some  scattered  brushes,  and  a  palette  with  green  and 
yellow  colors  mixed  on  it,  and  —  look  out  the  win- 
dow, dear,  at  the  last  ivy  leaf  on  the  wall.  Didn't 
you  wonder  why  it  never  fluttered  or  moved  when  the 
wind  blew?  Ah,  darling,  it's  Behrman's  masterpiece 
—  he  painted  it  there  the  night  that  the  last  leaf 
fell." 


THE  COUNT  AND  THE  WEDDING  GUEST 

ONE  evening  when  Andy  Donovan  went  to  dinner 
at  his  Second  Avenue  boarding-house,  Mrs.  Scott  in- 
troduced him  to  a  new  boarder,  a  young  lady,  Miss 
Conway.  Miss  Conway  was  small  and  unobtrusive. 
She  wore  a  plain,  snuffy-brown  dress,  and  bestowed 
her  interest,  which  seemed  languid,  upon  her  plate. 
She  lifted  her  diffident  eyelids  and  shot  one  per- 
spicuous, judicial  glance  at  Mr.  Donovan,  politely 
murmured  his  name,  and  returned  to  her  mutton. 
Mr.  Donovan  bowed  with  the  grace  and  beaming  smile 
that  were  rapidly  winning  for  him  social,  business  and 
political  advancement,  and  erased  the  snuffy-brown 
one  from  the  tablets  of  his  consideration. 

Two  weeks  later  Andy  was  sitting  on  the  front 
steps  enjoying  his  cigar.  There  was  a  soft  rustle 
behind  and  above  him,  and  Andy  turned  his  head  — 
and  had  his  head  turned. 

Just  coming  out  the  door  was  Miss  Conway.     She 

wore  a  night-black  dress  of  crepe  de  —  crepe  de  — 

oh,  this  thin  black  goods.     Her  hat  was  black,  and 

from  it  drooped  and  fluttered  an  ebon  veil,  filmy  as  a 

spider's  web.     She  stood  on  the  top  step  and  drew 

on  black  silk  gloves.     Not  a  speck  of  white  or  a  spot 

209 


210  The  Trimmed  Lamp 

of  color  about  her  dress  anywhere.  Her  rich  golden 
hair  was  drawn,  with  scarcely  a  ripple,  into  a  shining, 
smooth  knot  low  on  her  neck.  Her  face  was  plain 
rather  than  pretty,  but  it  was  now  illuminated  and 
made  almost  beautiful  by  her  large  gray  eyes  that 
gazed  above  the  houses  across  the  street  into  the  sky 
with  an  expression  of  the  most  appealing  sadness  and 
melancholy. 

Gather  the  idea,  girls  —  all  black,  you  know,  with 
the  preference  for  crepe  de  —  oh,  crepe  de  Chine  — 
that's  it.  All  black,  and  that  sad,  faraway  look,  and 
the  hair  shining  under  the  black  veil  (you  have  to  be 
a  blonde,  of  course),  and  try  to  look  as  if,  although 
your  young  life  had  been  blighted  just  as  it  was  about 
to  give  a  hop-skip-and-a-jump  over  the  threshold  of 
life,  a  walk  in  the  park  might  do  you  good,  and  be 
sure  to  happen  out  the  door  at  the  right  moment,  and 
—  oh,  it'll  fetch  'em  every  time.  But  it's  fierce,  now, 
how  cynical  I  am,  ain't  it  ?  —  to  talk  about  mourning 
costumes  this  way. 

Mr.  Donovan  suddenly  reinscribed  Miss  Conway 
upon  the  tablets  of  his  consideration.  He  threw  away 
the  remaining  inch-and-a-quarter  of  his  cigar,  that 
would  have  been  good  for  eight  minutes  yet,  and 
quickly  shifted  his  center  of  gravity  to  his  low  cut 
patent  leathers. 

"  It's  a  fine,  clear  evening,  Miss  Conway,"  he  said ; 
and  if  the  Weather  Bureau  could  have  heard  the  con- 


The  Count  and  the  Wedding  Guest    211 

fident  emphasis  of  his  tones  it  would  have  hoisted  the 
square  white  signal,  and  nailed  it  to  the  mast. 

"  To  them  that  has  the  heart  to  enjoy  it,  it  is,  Mr. 
Donovan,"  said  Miss  Conway,  with  a  sigh. 

Mr.  Donovan,  in  his  heart,  cursed  fair  weather. 
Heartless  weather !  It  should  hail  and  blow  and 
snow  to  be  consonant  with  the  mood  of  Miss  Conway. 

"  I  hope  none  of  your  relatives  —  I  hope  you 
haven't  sustained  a  loss  ?  "  ventured  Mr.  Donovan. 

"  Death  has  claimed,"  said  Miss  Conway,  hesitat- 
ing —  "  not  a  relative,  but  one  who  —  but  I  will  not 
intrude  my  grief  upon  you,  Mr.  Donovan." 

"Intrude?"  protested  Mr.  Donovan.  "Why, 
say,  Miss  Conway,  I'd  be  delighted,  that  is,  I'd  be 
sorry  —  I  mean  I'm  sure  nobody  could  sympathize 
with  you  truer  than  I  would." 

Miss  Conway  smiled  a  little  smile.  And  oh,  it  was 
sadder  than  her  expression  in  repose. 

"  '  Laugh,  and  the  world  laughs  with  you ;  weep, 
and  they  give  you  the  laugh,'  "  she  quoted.  "  I  have 
learned  that,  Mr.  Donovan.  I  have  no  friends  or  ac- 
quaintances in  this  city.  But  you  have  been  kind  to 
me.     I  appreciate  it  highly." 

He  had  passed  her  the  pepper  twice  at  the  table. 

"  It's  tough  to  be  alone  in  New  York  —  that's  a 
cinch,"  said  Mr.  Donovan.  "  But,  say  —  whenever 
this  little  old  town  does  loosen  up  and  get  friendly 
it  goes  the  limit.     Say  you  took  a  little  stroll  in  the 


212  The  Trimmed  Lamp 

park,  Miss  Conway  —  don't  you  think  it  might  chase 
away  some  of  your  mullygrubs?  And  if  you'd  allow 
me  —  " 

"  Thanks,  Mr.  Donovan.  I'd  be  pleased  to  accept 
of  your  escort  if  you  think  the  company  of  one  whose 
heart  is  filled  with  gloom  could  be  anyways  agreeable 
to  you." 

Through  the  open  gates  of  the  iron-railed,  old, 
downtown  park,  where  the  elect  once  took  the  air,  they 
strolled,  and  found  a  quiet  bench. 

There  is  this  difference  between  the  grief  of  youth 
and  that  of  old  age;  youth's  burden  is  lightened  by 
as  much  of  it  as  another  shares ;  old  age  may  give  and 
give,  but  the  sorrow  remains  the  same. 

"  He  was  my  fiance,"  confided  Miss  Conway,  at  the 
end  of  an  hour.  "  We  were  going  to  be  married  next 
spring.  I  don't  want  you  to  think  that  I  am  string- 
ing you,  Mr.  Donovan,  but  he  was  a  real  Count.  He 
had  an  estate  and  a  castle  in  Italy.  Count  Fernando 
Mazzini  was  his  name.  I  never  saw  the  beat  of  him 
for  elegance.  Papa  objected,  of  course,  and  once  we 
eloped,  but  papa  overtook  us,  and  took  us  back.  I 
thought  sure  papa  and  Fernando  would  fight  a  duel. 
Papa  has  a  livery  business  —  in  P'kipsee,  you  know. 

"  Finally,  papa  came  'round,  all  right,  and  said 
we  might  be  married  next  spring.  Fernando  showed 
him  proofs  of  his  title  and  wealth,  and  then  went 
over  to  Italy  to  get  the  castle  fixed  up  for  us.     Papa's 


The  Count  and  the  Wedding  Guest    213 

very  proud,  and  when  Fernando  wanted  to  give  me 
several  thousand  dollars  for  my  trousseau  he  called 
him  down  something  awful.  He  wouldn't  even  let 
me  take  a  ring  or  any  presents  from  him.  And  when 
Fernando  sailed  I  came  to  the  city  and  got  a  posi- 
tion as  cashier  in  a  candy  store. 

"  Three  days  ago  I  got  a  letter  from  Italy,  for- 
warded from  P'kipsee,  saying  that  Fernando  had  been 
killed  in  a  gondola  accident. 

"  That  is  why  I  am  in  mourning.  My  heart,  Mr. 
Donovan,  will  remain  forever  in  his  grave.  I  guess 
I  am  poor  company,  Mr.  Donovan,  but  I  cannot  take 
any  interest  in  no  one.  I  should  not  care  to  keep  you 
from  gayety  and  your  friends  who  can  smile  and 
entertain  you.  Perhaps  you  would  prefer  to  walk 
back  to  the  house  ?  " 

Now,  girls,  if  you  want  to  observe  a  young  man 
hustle  out  after  a  pick  and  shovel,  just  tell  him  that 
your  heart  is  in  some  other  fellow's  grave.  Young 
men  are  grave-robbers  by  nature.  Ask  any  widow. 
Something  must  be  done  to  restore  that  missing  organ 
to  weeping  angels  in  crepe  de  Chine.  Dead  men  cer- 
tainly got  the  worst  of  it  from  all  sides. 

"  I'm  awful  sorry,"  said  Mr.  Donovan,  gently. 
"  No,  we  won't  walk  back  to  the  house  just  yet.  And 
don't  say  you  haven't  no  friends  in  this  city,  Miss 
Conway.  I'm  awful  sorry,  and  I  want  you  to  believe 
I'm  your  friend,  and  that  I'm  awful  sorry." 


214  The  Trimmed  Lamp 


a 


I've  got  his  picture  here  in  my  locket,"  said  Miss 
Conway,  after  wiping  her  eyes  with  her  handkerchief. 
"  I  never  showed  it  to  anybody ;  but  I  will  to  you, 
Mr.  Donovan,  because  I  believe  you  to  be  a  true 
friend." 

Mr.  Donovan  gazed  long  and  with  much  interest 
at  the  photograph  in  the  locket  that  Miss  Conway 
opened  for  him.  The  face  of  Count  Mazzini  was  one 
to  command  interest.  It  was  a  smooth,  intelligent, 
bright,  almost  a  handsome  face  —  the  face  of  a 
strong,  cheerful  man  who  might  well  be  a  leader 
among  his  fellows. 

"  I  have  a  larger  one,  framed,  in  my  room,"  said 
Miss  Conway.  "  When  we  return  I  will  show  you 
that.  They  are  all  I  have  to  remind  me  of  Fernando. 
But  he  ever  will  be  present  in  my  heart,  that's  a  sure 
thing." 

A  subtle  task  confronted  Mr.  Donovan  —  that  of 
supplanting  the  unfortunate  Count  in  the  heart  of 
Miss  Conway.  This  his  admiration  for  her  deter- 
mined him  to  do.  But  the  magnitude  of  the  under- 
taking did  not  seem  to  weigh  upon  his  spirits.  The 
sympathetic  but  cheerful  friend  was  the  role  he  es- 
sayed; and  he  played  it  so  successfully  that  the  next 
half-hour  found  them  conversing  pensively  across  two 
plates  of  ice-cream,  though  yet  there  was  no  diminu- 
tion of  the  sadness  in  Miss  Conway's  large  gray  eyes. 

Before  they  parted  in  the  hall  that  evening  she  ran 


The  Count  and  the  Wedding  Guest    215 

upstairs  and  brought  down  the  framed  photograph 
wrapped  lovingly  in  a  white  silk  scarf.  Mr.  Dono- 
van surveyed  it  with  inscrutable  eyes. 

"  He  gave  me  this  the  night  he  left  for  Italy,"  said 
Miss  Conway.  "  I  had  the  one  for  the  locket  made 
from  this." 

"  A  fine-looking  man,"  said  Mr.  Donovan,  heartily. 
"  How  would  it  suit  you,  Miss  Conway,  to  give  me 
pleasure  of  your  company  to  Coney  next  Sunday 
afternoon  ?  " 

A  month  later  they  announced  their  engagement 
to  Mrs.  Scott  and  the  other  boarders.  Miss  Conway 
continued  to  wear  black. 

A  week  after  the  announcement  the  two  sat  on  the 
same  bench  in  the  downtown  park,  while  the  fluttering 
leaves  of  the  trees  made  a  dim  kinetoscopic  picture  of 
them  in  the  moonlight.  But  Donovan  had  worn  a 
look  of  abstracted  gloom  all  day.  He  was  so  silent 
to-night  that  love's  lips  could  not  keep  back  any 
longer  the  questions  that  love's  heart  propounded. 

"  What's  the  matter,  Andy,  you  are  so  solemn  and 
grouchy  to-night?  " 

"  Nothing,  Maggie." 

"  I  know  better.  Can't  I  tell  ?  You  never  acted 
this  way  before.     What  is  it  ?  " 

"  It's  nothing  much,  Maggie." 

"  Yes  it  is ;  and  I  want  to  know.  I'll  bet  it's  some 
other  girl  you  are  thinking  about.     All  right.     Why 


216  The  Trimmed  Lamp 

don't  you  go  get  her  if  you  want  her?  Take  your 
arm  away,  if  you  please." 

"  I'll  tell  you  then,"  said  Andy,  wisely,  "  but  I 
guess  you  won't  understand  it  exactly.  You've  heard 
of  Mike  Sullivan,  haven't  you?  'Big  Mike'  Sulli- 
van, everybody  calls  him." 

"  No,  I  haven't,"  said  Maggie.  "  And  I  don't 
want  to,  if  he  makes  you  act  like  this.     Who  is  he?  " 

"  He's  the  biggest  man  in  New  York,"  said  Andy, 
almost  reverently.  "  He  can  about  do  anything  he 
wants  to  with  Tammany  or  any  other  old  thing  in 
the  political  line.  He's  a  mile  high  and  as  broad  as 
East  River.  You  say  anything  against  Big  Mike, 
and  you'll  have  a  million  men  on  your  collarbone  in 
about  two  seconds.  Why,  he  made  a  visit  over  to  the 
old  country  awhile  back,  and  the  kings  took  to  their 
holes  like  rabbits. 

"  Well,  Big  Mike's  a  friend  of  mine.  I  ain't  more 
than  deuce-high  in  the  district  as  far  as  influence 
goes,  but  Mike's  as  good  a  friend  to  a  little  man,  or 
a  poor  man  as  he  is  to  a  big  one.  I  met  him  to-day 
on  the  Bowery,  and  what  do  you  think  he  does? 
Comes  up  and  shakes  hands.  '  Andy,'  says  he,  '  I've 
been  keeping  cases  on  you.  You've  been  putting  in 
some  good  licks  over  on  your  side  of  the  street,  and 
I'm  proud  of  you.  What'll  you  take  to  drink  ?  '  He 
takes  a  cigar,  and  I  take  a  highball.  I  told  him 
I  was  going  to  get  married  in  two  weeks.     *  Andy,' 


The  Count  and  the  Wedding  Guest    217 

says  he,  '  send  mc  an  invitation,  so  I'll  keep  in  mind 
of  it,  and  I'll  come  to  the  wedding.'  That's  what 
Big  Mike  says  to  me;  and  he  always  does  what  he 
says. 

"  You  don't  understand  it,  Maggie,  but  I'd  have 
one  of  my  hands  cut  off  to  have  Big  Mike  Sullivan  at 
our  wedding.  It  would  be  the  proudest  day  of  my 
life.  When  he  goes  to  a  man's  wedding,  there's  a 
guy  being  married  that's  made  for  life.  Now,  that's 
why  I'm  maybe  looking  sore  to-night." 

"  Why  don't  you  invite  him,  then,  if  he's  so  much 
to  the  mustard?  "  said  Maggie,  lightly. 

"  There's  a  reason  why  I  can't,"  said  Andy,  sadly. 
"  There's  a  reason  why  he  mustn't  be  there.  Don't 
ask  me  what  it  is,  for  I  can't  tell  you." 

"  Oh,  I  don't  care,"  said  Maggie.  "  It's  something 
about  politics,  of  course.  But  it's  no  reason  why  you 
can't  smile  at  me." 

"  Maggie,"  said  Andy,  presently,  "  do  you  think  as 
much  of  me  as  you  did  of  your  —  as  you  did  of  the 
Count  Mazzini?  " 

He  waited  a  long  time,  but  Maggie  did  not  reply. 
And  then,  suddenly  she  leaned  against  his  shoulder 
and  began  to  cry  —  to  cry  and  shake  with  sobs,  hold- 
ing his  arm  tightly,  and  wetting  the  crepe  de  Chine 
with  tears. 

"  There,  there,  there ! "  soothed  Andy,  putting 
aside  his  own  trouble.     "  And  what  is  it,  now  ?  " 


218  The  Trimmed  Lamp 

"  Andy,"  sobbed  Maggie.  "  I've  lied  to  you,  and 
you'll  never  marry  me,  or  love  me  any  more.  But  I 
feel  that  I've  got  to  tell.  Andy,  there  never  was  so 
much  as  the  little  finger  of  a  count.  I  never  had  a 
beau  in  my  life.  But  all  the  other  girls  had;  and 
they  talked  about  'em ;  and  that  seemed  to  make  the 
fellows  like  'em  more.  And,  Andy,  I  look  swell  in 
black  —  you  know  I  do.  So  I  went  out  to  a  photo- 
graph store  and  bought  that  picture,  and  had  a  little 
one  made  for  my  locket,  and  made  up  all  that  story 
about  the  Count,  and  about  his  being  killed,  so  I  could 
wear  black.  And  nobody  can  love  a  liar,  and  you'll 
shake  me,  Andy,  and  I'll  die  for  shame.  Oh,  there 
never  was  anybody  I  liked  but  you  —  and  that's  all." 

But  instead  of  being  pushed  away,  she  found 
Andy's  arm  folding  her  closer.  She  looked  up  and 
saw  his  face  cleared  and  smiling. 

"  Could  you  —  could  you  forgive  me,  Andy  ?  " 

"  Sure,"  said  Andy.  "  It's  all  right  about  that. 
Back  to  the  cemetery  for  the  Count.  You've 
straightened  everything  out,  Maggie.  I  was  in  hopes 
you  would  before  the  wedding-day.     Bully  girl !  " 

"  Andy,"  said  Maggie,  with  a  somewhat  shy  smile, 
after  she  had  been  thoroughly  assured  of  forgiveness, 
"  did  you  believe  all  that  story  about  the  Count  ?  " 

"  Well,  not  to  any  large  extent,"  said  Andy,  reach- 
ing for  his  cigar  case ;  "  because  it's  Big  Mike  Sul- 
livan's picture  you've  got  in  that  locket  of  yours." 


THE  COUNTRY  OF  ELUSION 

THE  cunning  writer  will  choose  an  indefinable  sub- 
ject, for  he  can  then  set  down  his  theory  of  what  it 
is;  and  next,  at  length,  his  conception  of  what  it  is 
not  —  and  lo !  his  paper  is  covered.  Therefore  let 
us  follow  the  prolix  and  unmapable  trail  into  that 
mooted  country,  Bohemia. 

Grainger,  sub-editor  of  Doe's  Magazine,  closed  his 
roll-top  desk,  put  on  his  hat,  walked  into  the  hall, 
punched  the  "  down "  button,  and  waited  for  the 
elevator. 

Grainger's  day  had  been  trying.  The  chief  had 
tried  to  ruin  the  magazine  a  dozen  times  by  going 
against  Grainger's  ideas  for  running  it.  A  lady 
whose  grandfather  had  fought  with  McClellan  had 
brought  a  portfolio  of  poems  in  person. 

Grainger  was  curator  of  the  Lion's  House  of  the 
magazine.  That  day  he  had  "  lunched  "  an  Arctic 
explorer,  a  short-story  writer,  and  the  famous  con- 
ductor of  a  slaughter-house  expose.  Consequently 
1  is  mind  was  in  a  whirl  of  icebergs,  Maupassant,  and 
5  -ichinosis. 

But  there  was  a  surcease  and  a  recourse ;  there  was 

219 


220  The  Trimmed  Lamp 

Bohemia.  He  would  seek  distraction  there ;  and,  let's 
see  —  he  would  call  by  for  Mary  Adrian. 

Half  an  hour  later  he  threaded  his  way  like  a 
Brazilian  orchid-hunter  through  the  palm  forest  in 
the  tiled  entrance  hall  of  the  "  Idealia  "  apartment- 
house.  One  day  the  christeners  of  apartment-houses 
and  the  cognominators  of  sleeping-cars  will  meet,  and 
there  will  be  some  jealous  and  sanguinary  knifing. 

The  clerk  breathed  Grainger's  name  so  languidly 
into  the  house  telephone  that  it  seemed  it  must  surely 
drop,  from  sheer  inertia,  down  to  the  janitor's  re- 
gions. But,  at  length,  it  soared  dilatorily  up  to  Miss 
Adrian's  ear.  Certainly,  Mr.  Grainger  was  to  come 
up  immediately. 

A  colored  maid  with  an  Eliza-crossing-the-ice  ex- 
pression opened  the  door  of  the  apartment  for  him. 
Grainger  walked  sideways  down  the  narrow  hall.  A 
bunch  of  burnt  umber  hair  and  a  sea-green  eye  ap- 
peared in  the  crack  of  a  door.  A  long,  white,  un- 
draped  arm  came  out,  barring  the  way. 

"  So  glad  you  came,  Ricky,  instead  of  any  of  the 
others,"  said  the  eye.  "  Light  a  cigarette  and  give 
it  to  me.  Going  to  take  me  to  dinner?  Fine.  Go 
into  the  front  room  till  I  finish  dressing.  But  don't 
sit  in  your  usual  chair.  There's  pie  in  it  —  Mer- 
ingue. Kappelman  threw  it  at  Reeves  last  evening 
while  he  was  reciting.  Sophy  has  just  come  to 
straighten  up.     Is  it  lit?     Thanks.     There's  Scotch 


The  Country  of  Elusion  221 

on  the  mantel  —  oh,  no,  it  isn't  —  that's  chartreuse. 
Ask  Sophy  to  find  you  some.     I  won't  be  long." 

Grainger  escaped  the  meringue.  As  he  waited  his 
spirits  sank  still  lower.  The  atmosphere  of  the  room 
was  as  vapid  as  a  zephyr  wandering  over  a  Vesuvian 
lava-bed.  Relics  of  some  feast  lay  about  the  room, 
scattered  in  places  where  even  a  prowling  cat  would 
have  been  surprised  to  find  them.  A  straggling  clus- 
ter of  deep  red  roses  in  a  marmalade  jar  bowed  their 
heads  over  tobacco  ashes  and  unwashed  goblets.  A 
chafing-dish  stood  on  the  piano ;  a  leaf  of  sheet  music 
supported  a  stack  of  sandwiches  in  a  chair. 

Mary  came  in,  dressed  and  radiant.  Her  gown 
was  of  that  thin,  black  fabric  whose  name  through 
the  change  of  a  single  vowel  seems  to  summon  vis- 
ions ranging  between  the  extremes  of  man's  experi- 
ence. Spelled  with  an  "  e  "  it  belongs  to  Gallic  witch- 
ery and  diaphanous  dreams ;  with  an  "  a  "  it  drapes 
lamentation  and  woe. 

That  evening  they  went  to  the  Cafe  Andre.  And, 
as  people  would  confide  to  you  in  a  whisper  that 
Andre's  was  the  only  truly  Bohemian  restaurant  in 
town,  it  may  be  well  to  follow  them. 

Andre  began  his  professional  career  as  a  waiter  in 
a  Bowery  ten-cent  eating-house.  Had  you  seen  him 
there  you  would  have  called  him  tough  —  to  yourself. 
Not  aloud,  for  he  would  have  "  soaked "  you  as 
quickly  as  he  would  have  soaked  his  thumb  in  your 


222  The  Trimmed  Lamp 

coffee.  He  saved  money  and  started  a  basement  table 
d'hote  in  Eighth  (or  Ninth)  Street.  One  afternoon 
Andre  drank  too  much  absinthe.  He  announced  to 
his  startled  family  that  he  was  the  Grand  Llama  of 
Thibet,  therefore  requiring  an  empty  audience  hall  in 
which  to  be  worshiped.  He  moved  all  the  tables  and 
chairs  from  the  restaurant  into  the  back  yard, 
wrapped  a  red  table-cloth  around  himself,  and  sat  on 
a  step-ladder  for  a  throne.  When  the  diners  began 
to  arrive,  madame,  in  a  flurry  of  despair,  laid  cloths 
and  ushered  them,  trembling,  outside.  Between  the 
tables  clothes-lines  were  stretched,  bearing  the  family 
wash.  A  party  of  Bohemia  hunters  greeted  the  ar- 
tistic innovation  with  shrieks  and  acclamations  of  de- 
light. That  week's  washing  was  not  taken  in  for  two 
years.  When  Andre  came  to  his  senses  he  had  the 
menu  printed  on  stiffly  starched  cuffs,  and  served  the 
ices  in  little  wooden  tubs.  Next  he  took  down  his  sign 
and  darkened  the  front  of  the  house.  When  you 
went  there  to  dine  you  fumbled  for  an  electric  button 
and  pressed  it.  A  lookout  slid  open  a  panel  in  the 
door,  looked  at  you  suspiciously,  and  asked  if  you 
were  acquainted  with  Senator  Herodotus  Q.  McMil- 
ligan,  of  the  Chickasaw  Nation.  If  you  were,  you 
were  admitted  and  allowed  to  dine.  If  you  were  not, 
you  were  admitted  and  allowed  to  dine.  There  you 
have  one  of  the  abiding  principles  of  Bohemia. 
When  Andre  had  accumulated  $20,000  he  moved  up- 


The  Country  of  Elusion  223 

town,  near  Broadway,  in  the  fierce  light  that  beats 
upon  the  thrown-down.  There  we  find  him  and  leave 
him,  with  customers  in  pearls  and  automobile  veils, 
striving  to  catch  his  excellently  graduated  nod  of 
recognition. 

There  is  a  large  round  table  in  the  northeast  corner 
of  Andre's  at  which  six  can  sit.  To  this  table 
Grainger  and  Mary  Adrian  made  their  way.  Kap- 
pelman  and  Reeves  were  already  there.  And  Miss 
Tooker,  who  designed  the  May  cover  for  the  Ladies' 
Notathome  Magazine.  And  Mrs.  Pothunter,  who 
never  drank  anything  but  black  and  white  highballs, 
being  in  mourning  for  her  husband,  who  —  oh,  I've 
forgotten  what  he  did  —  died,  like  as  not. 

Spaghetti-weary  reader,  wouldst  take  one  penny- 
in-the-slot  peep  into  the  fair  land  of  Bohemia  ?  Then 
look ;  and  when  you  think  you  have  seen  it  you  have 
not.  And  it  is  neither  thimbleriggery  nor  astig- 
matism. 

The  walls  of  the  Cafe  'Andre  were  covered  with 
original  sketches  by  the  artists  who  furnished  much 
of  the  color  and  sound  of  the  place.  Fair  woman  fur- 
nished the  theme  for  the  bulk  of  the  drawings.  When 
you  say  "  sirens  and  siphons  "  you  come  near  to  esti- 
mating the  alliterative  atmosphere  of  Andre's. 

First,  I  want  you  to  meet  my  friend,  Miss  Adrian. 
Miss  Tooker  and  Mrs.  Pothunter  you  already  know. 
While  she  tucks  in  the  fingers  of  her  elbow  gloves  you 


224  The  Trimmed  Lamp 

shall  have  her  daguerreotype.  So  faint  and  uncertain 
shall  the  portrait  be : 

Age,  somewhere  between  twenty-seven  and  high- 
neck  evening  dresses.  Camaraderie  in  large  bunches 
—  whatever  the  fearful  word  may  mean.  Habitat  — 
anywhere  from  Seattle  to  Terra  del  Fuego.  Tem- 
perament uncharted  —  she  let  Reeves  squeeze  her 
hand  after  he  recited  one  of  his  poems;  but  she 
counted  the  change  after  sending  him  out  with  a 
dollar  to  buy  some  pickled  pig's  feet.  Deportment 
75  out  of  a  possible  100.     Morals  100. 

Mary  was  one  of  the  princesses  of  Bohemia.  In 
the  first  place,  it  was  a  royal  and  a  daring  thing 
to  have  been  named  Mary.  There  are  twenty 
Fifines  and  Heloises  to  one  Mary  in  the  Country  of 
Elusion. 

Now  her  gloves  are  tucked  in.  Miss  Tooker  has 
assumed  a  June  poster  pose;  Mrs.  Pothunter  has 
bitten  her  lips  to  make  the  red  show ;  Reeves  has  sev- 
eral times  felt  his  coat  to  make  sure  that  his  latest 
poem  is  in  the  pocket.  (It  had  been  neatly  typewrit- 
ten ;  but  he  has  copied  it  on  the  backs  of  letters  with 
a  pencil.)  Kappelman  is  underhandedly  watching 
the  clock.  It  is  ten  minutes  to  nine.  When  the  hour 
comes  it  is  to  remind  him  of  a  story.  Synopsis:  A 
French  girl  says  to  her  suitor :  "  Did  you  ask  my 
father  for  my  hand  at  nine  o'clock  this  morning,  as 
you    said   you   would?"     "I   did   not,"   he   replies. 


The  Country  of  Elusion  225 

"  At  nine  o'clock  I  was  fighting  a  duel  with  swords 
in  the  Bois  de  Boulogne."     "  Coward !  "  she  hisses. 

The  dinner  was  ordered.  You  know  how  the  Bo- 
hemian feast  of  reason  keeps  up  with  the  courses. 
Humor  with  the  oysters ;  wit  with  the  soup ;  repartee 
with  the  entree;  brag  with  the  roast;  knocks  for 
Whistler  and  Kipling  with  the  salad;  songs  with  the 
coffee;  the  slapsticks  with  the  cordials. 

Between  Miss  Adrian's  eyebrows  was  the  pucker 
that  shows  the  intense  strain  it  requires  to  be  at  ease 
in  Bohemia.  Pat  must  come  each  sally,  mot,  and 
epigram.  Every  second  of  deliberation  upon  a  reply 
costs  you  a  bay  leaf.  Fine  as  a  hair,  a  line  began  to 
curve  from  her  nostrils  to  her  mouth.  To  hold  her 
own  not  a  chance  must  be  missed.  A  sentence  ad- 
dressed to  her  must  be  as  a  piccolo,  each  word  of  it  a 
stop,  which  she  must  be  prepared  to  seize  upon  and 
play.  And  she  must  always  be  quicker  than  a  Micmac 
Indian  to  paddle  the  light  canoe  of  conversation  away 
from  the  rocks  in  the  rapids  that  flow  from  the  Pierian 
spring.  For,  plodding  reader,  the  handwriting  on 
the  wall  in  the  banquet  hall  of  Bohemia  is  "  Laisser 
faire"  The  gray  ghost  that  sometimes  peeps 
through  the  rings  of  smoke  is  that  of  slain  old  King 
Convention.  Freedom  is  the  tyrant  that  holds  them 
in  slavery. 

As  the  dinner  waned,  hands  reached  for  the  pepper 
cruet  rather  than  for  the  shaker  of  Attic  salt.     Miss 


226  The  Trimmed  Lamp 

Tooker,  with  an  elbow  to  business,  leaned  across 
the  table  toward  Grainger,  upsetting  her  glass  of 
wine. 

"  Now  while  you  are  fed  and  in  good  humor,"  she 
said,  "  I  want  to  make  a  suggestion  to  you  about  a 
new  cover." 

"  A  good  idea,"  said  Grainger,  mopping  the  table- 
cloth with  his  napkin.  "  I'll  speak  to  the  waiter 
about  it." 

Kappelman,  the  painter,  was  the  cut-up.  As  a 
piece  of  delicate  Athenian  wit  he  got  up  from  his  chair 
and  waltzed  down  the  room  with  a  waiter.  That  de- 
pendent, no  doubt  an  honest,  pachydermatous,  worthy, 
tax-paying,  art-despising  biped,  released  himself  from 
the  unequal  encounter,  carried  his  professional  smile 
back  to  the  dumb-waiter  and  dropped  it  down  the 
shaft  to  eternal  oblivion.  Reeves  began  to  make 
Keats  turn  in  his  grave.  Mrs.  Pothunter  told  the 
story  of  the  man  who  met  the  widow  on  the  train. 
Miss  Adrian  hummed  what  is  still  called  a  chanson  in 
the  cafes  of  Bridgeport.  Grainger  edited  each  in- 
dividual effort  with  his  assistant  editor's  smile,  which 
meant :  "  Great !  but  you'll  have  to  send  them  in 
through  the  regular  channels.  If  I  were  the  chief 
now  —  but  you  know  how  it  is." 

And  soon  the  head  waiter  bowed  before  them,  deso- 
lated to  relate  that  the  closing  hour  had  already  be- 
come chronologically  historical ;  so  out  all  trooped  into 


The  Country  of  Elusion  227 

the  starry  midnight,  filling  the  street  with  gay  laugh- 
ter, to  be  barked  at  by  hopeful  cabmen  and  enviously 
eyed  by  the  dull  inhabitants  of  an  uninspired  world. 

Grainger  left  Mary  at  the  elevator  in  the  trackless 
palm  forest  of  the  Idealia.  After  he  had  gone  she 
came  down  again  carrying  a  small  hand-bag,  'phoned 
for  a  cab,  drove  to  the  Grand  Central  Station,  boarded 
a  12.55  commuter's  train,  rode  four  hours  with  her 
burnt-umber  head  bobbing  against  the  red-plush  back 
of  the  seat,  and  landed  during  a  fresh,  stinging, 
glorious  sunrise  at  a  deserted  station,  the  size  of  a 
peach  crate,  called  Crocusville. 

She  walked  a  mile  and  clicked  the  latch  of  a  gate. 
A  bare,  brown  cottage  stood  twenty  yards  back;  an 
old  man  with  a  pearl-white,  Calvinistic  face  and 
clothes  dyed  blacker  than  a  raven  in  a  coal-mine  was 
washing  his  hands  in  a  tin  basin  on  the  front  porch. 

"How  are  you,  father?"  said  Mary  timidly. 

"  I  am  as  well  as  Providence  permits,  Mary  Ann. 
You  will  find  your  mother  in  the  kitchen." 

In  the  kitchen  a  cryptic,  gray  woman  kissed  her 
glacially  on  the  forehead,  and  pointed  out  the  potatoes 
which  were  not  yet  peeled  for  breakfast.  Mary  sat  in 
a  wooden  chair  and  decorticated  spuds,  with  a  thrill 
in  her  heart. 

For  breakfast  there  were  grace,  cold  bread,  pota- 
toes, bacon,  and  tea. 

You  are  pursuing  the  same  avocation  in  the  city 


« 


228  The  Trimmed  Lamp 

concerning  which  you  have  advised  us  from  time  to 
time  by  letter,  I  trust,"  said  her  father. 

"  Yes,"  said  Mary,  "  I  am  still  reviewing  books 
for  the  same  publication." 

After  breakfast  she  helped  wash  the  dishes,  and 
then  all  three  sat  in  straight-back  chairs  in  the  bare- 
floored  parlor. 

"  It  is  my  custom,"  said  the  old  man,  "  on  the  Sab- 
bath day  to  read  aloud  from  the  great  work  entitled 
the  *  Apology  for  Authorized  and  Set  Forms  of  Lit- 
urgy,' by  the  ecclesiastical  philosopher  and  revered 
theologian,  Jeremy  Taylor." 

"  I  know  it,"  said  Mary  blissfully,  folding  her 
hands. 

For  two  hours  the  numbers  of  the  great  Jeremy 
rolled  forth  like  the  notes  of  an  oratorio  played  on 
the  violoncello.  Mary  sat  gloating  in  the  new  sensa- 
tion of  racking  physical  discomfort  that  the  wooden 
chair  brought  her.  Perhaps  there  is  no  happiness  in 
life  so  perfect  as  the  martyr's.  Jeremy's  minor 
chords  soothed  her  like  the  music  of  a  tom-tom. 
"  Why,  oh  why,"  she  said  to  herself,  "  does  some  one 
not  write  words  to  it  ?  " 

At  eleven  they  went  to  church  in  Crocusville.  The 
back  of  the  pine  bench  on  which  she  sat  had  a  peni- 
tental  forward  tilt  that  would  have  brought  St.  Simeon 
down,  in  jealousy,  from  his  pillar.  The  preacher 
singled  her  out,  and  thundered  upon  her  vicarious 


The  Country  of  Elusion  229 

head  the  damnation  of  the  world.  At  each  side  of 
her  an  adamant  parent  held  her  rigidly  to  the  bar  of 
judgment.  An  ant  crawled  upon  her  neck,  but  she 
dared  not  move.  She  lowered  her  eyes  before  the  con- 
gregation —  a  hundred-eyed  Cerberus  that  watched 
the  gates  through  which  her  sins  were  fast  thrusting 
her.  Her  soul  was  filled  with  a  delirious,  almost  a 
fanatic  joy.  For  she  was  out  of  the  clutch  of  the 
tyrant,  Freedom.  Dogma  and  creed  pinioned  her 
with  beneficent  cruelty,  as  steel  braces  bind  the  feet  of 
a  crippled  child.  She  was  hedged,  adjured,  shackled, 
shored  up,  strait- j  acketed,  silenced,  ordered.  When 
they  came  out  the  minister  stopped  to  greet  them. 
Mary  could  only  hang  her  head  and  answer  "  Yes, 
sir,"  and  "  No,  sir,"  to  his  questions.  When  she  saw 
that  the  other  women  carried  their  hymn-books  at 
their  waists  with  their  left  hands,  she  blushed  and 
moved  hers  there,  too,  from  her  right. 

She  took  the  three-o'clock  train  back  to  the  city. 
At  nine  she  sat  at  the  round  table  for  dinner  in  the 
Cafe  Andre.     Nearly  the  same  crowd  was  there. 

"  Where  have  you  been  to-day?  "  asked  Mrs.  Pot- 
hunter.    "  I  'phoned  to  you  at  twelve." 

"  I  have  been  away  in  Bohemia,"  answered  Mary, 
with  a  mystic  smile. 

There !  Mary  has  given  it  away.  She  has  spoiled 
my  climax.  For  I  was  to  have  told  you  that  Bo- 
hemia is  nothing  more  than  the  little  country  in  which 


230  The  Trimmed  Lamp 

you  do  not  live.  If  you  try  to  obtain  citizenship  in 
it,  at  once  the  court  and  retinue  pack  the  royal 
archives  and  treasure  and  move  away  beyond  the 
hills.  It  is  a  hillside  that  you  turn  your  head  to  peer 
at  from  the  windows  of  the  Through  Express. 

At  exactly  half  past  eleven  Kappelman,  deceived  by 
a  new  softness  and  slowness  of  riposte  and  parry  in 
Mary  Adrian,  tried  to  kiss  her.  Instantly  she  slap- 
ped his  face  with  such  strength  and  cold  fury  that  he 
shrank  down,  sobered,  with  the  flaming  red  print  of 
a  hand  across  his  leering  features.  And  all  sounds 
ceased,  as  when  the  shadows  of  great  wings  come  upon 
a  flock  of  chattering  sparrows.  One  had  broken  the 
paramount  law  of  sham-Bohemia  —  the  law  of  "  Lais- 
ser  faire."  The  shock  came  not  from  the  blow  de- 
livered, but  from  the  blow  received.  With  the  effect 
of  a  schoolmaster  entering  the  play-room  of  his  pupils 
was  that  blow  administered.  Women  pulled  down 
their  sleeves  and  laid  prim  hands  against  their  ruffled 
side  locks.  Men  looked  at  their  watches.  There  was 
nothing  of  the  effect  of  a  brawl  about  it ;  it  was  purely 
the  still  panic  produced  by  the  sound  of  the  ax  of 
the  fly  cop,  Conscience  hammering  at  the  gambling- 
house  doors  of  the  Heart. 

With  their  punctilious  putting  on  of  cloaks,  with 
their  exaggerated  pretense  of  not  having  seen  or 
heard,  with  their  stammering  exchange  of  unaccus- 
tomed formalities,  with  their  false  show  of  a  light- 


The  Country  of  Elusion  231 

hearted  exit  I  must  take  leave  of  my  Bohemian  party. 
Mary  has  robbed  me  of  my  climax ;  and  she  may  go. 

But  I  am  not  defeated.  Somewhere  there  exists  a 
great  vault  miles  broad  and  miles  long  —  more  ca- 
pacious than  the  champagne  caves  of  France.  In 
that  vault  are  stored  the  anticlimaxes  that  should  have 
been  tagged  to  all  the  stories  that  have  been  told  in 
the  world.     I  shall  cheat  that  vault  of  one  deposit. 

Minnie  Brown,  with  her  aunt,  came  from  Crocus- 
ville  down  to  the  city  to  see  the  sights.  And  because 
she  had  escorted  me  to  Ashless  trout  streams  and  ex- 
hibited to  me  open-plumbed  waterfalls  and  broken  my 
camera  while  I  Julyed  in  her  village,  I  must  escort  her 
to  the  hives  containing  the  synthetic  clover  honey  of 
town. 

Especially  did  the  custom-made  Bohemia  charm 
her.  The  spaghetti  wound  its  tendrils  about  her 
heart;  the  free  red  wine  drowned  her  belief  in  the 
existence  of  commercialism  in  the  world;  she  was 
dazed  and  enchanted  by  the  rugose  wit  that  can  be 
churned  out  of  California  claret. 

But  one  evening  I  got  her  away  from  the  smell  of 
halibut  and  linoleum  long  enough  to  read  to  her  the 
manuscript  of  this  story,  which  then  ended  before  her 
entrance  into  it.  I  read  it  to  her  because  I  knew  that 
all  the  printing-presses  in  the  world  were  running  to 
try  to  please  her  and  some  others.  And  I  asked  her 
about  it. 


232  The  Trimmed  Lamp 


"  I  didn't  quite  catch  the  trains,"  said  she.  "  How 
long  was  Mary  in  Crocusville  ?  " 

"  Ten  hours  and  five  minutes,"  I  replied. 

"  Well,  then,  the  story  may  do,"  said  Minnie. 
"  But  if  she  had  stayed  there  a  week  Kappelman 
would  have  got  his  kiss." 


THE  FERRY  OF  UNFULFILMENT 

A.T  the  street  corner,  as  solid  as  granite  in  the 
"  rush-hour  "  tide  of  humanity,  stood  the  Man  from 
Nome.  The  Arctic  winds  and  sun  had  stained  him 
berry-brown.  His  eye  still  held  the  azure  glint  of 
the  glaciers. 

He  was  as  alert  as  a  fox,  as  tough  as  a  caribou 
cutlet  and  as  broad-gauged  as  the  aurora  borealis. 
He  stood  sprayed  by  a  Niagara  of  sound  —  the  crash 
of  the  elevated  trains,  clanging  cars,  pounding  of 
rubberless  tires  and  the  antiphony  of  the  cab  and 
truck-drivers  indulging  in  scarifying  repartee.  And 
so,  with  his  gold  dust  cashed  in  to  the  merry  air  of  a 
hundred  thousand,  and  with  the  cakes  and  ale  of  one 
week  in  Gotham  turning  bitter  on  his  tongue,  the 
Man  from  Nome  sighed  to  set  foot  again  in  Chilkoot, 
the  exit  from  the  land  of  street  noises  and  Dead  Sea 
apple  pies. 

Up   Sixth   avenue,  with  the  tripping,   scurrying, 

chattering  bright-eyed,  homing  tide   came  the  Girl 

from  Sieber-Mason's.     The  Man  from  Nome  looked 

and  saw,  first,  that  she  was  supremely  beautiful  after 

his   own   conception   of  beauty ;   and  next,   that   she 

233 


234  The  Trimmed  Lamp 

moved  with  exactly  the  steady  grace  of  a  dog  sled  on 
a  level  crust  of  snow.  His  third  sensation  was  an  in- 
stantaneous conviction  that  he  desired  her  greatly  for 
his  own.  This  quickly  do  men  from  Nome  make  up 
their  minds.  Besides,  he  was  going  back  to  the  North 
in  a  short  time,  and  to  act  quickly  was  no  less  neces- 
sary. 

A  thousand  girls  from  the  great  department  store 
of  Sieber-Mason  flowed  along  the  sidewalk,  making 
navigation  dangerous  to  men  whose  feminine  field  of 
vision  for  three  years  has  been  chiefly  limited  to  Si- 
wash  and  Chilkat  squaws.  But  the  Man  from  Nome, 
loyal  to  her  who  had  resurrected  his  long  cached 
heart,  plunged  into  the  stream  of  pulchritude  and 
followed  her. 

Down  Twenty-third  street  she  glided  swiftly,  look- 
ing to  neither  side ;  no  more  flirtatious  than  the  bronze 
Diana  above  the  Garden.  Her  fine  brown  hair  was 
neatly  braided;  her  neat  waist  and  unwrinkled  black 
skirt  were  eloquent  of  the  double  virtues  —  taste  and 
economy.  Ten  yards  behind  followed  the  smitten 
Man  from  Nome. 

Miss  Claribel  Colby,  the  Girl  from  Sieber-Mason's, 
belonged  to  that  sad  company  of  mariners  known  as 
Jersey  commuters.  She  walked  into  the  waiting-room 
of  the  ferry,  and  up  the  stairs,  and  by  a  marvellous 
swift,  little  run,  caught  the  ferry-boat  that  was  just 
going  out.     The  Man  from  Nome  closed  up  his  ten 


The  Ferry  of  Unfulfilment  235 

yards  in  three  jumps  and  gained  the  deck  close  beside 
her. 

Miss  Colby  chose  a  rather  lonely  seat  on  the  out- 
side of  the  upper-cabin.  The  night  was  not  cold,  and 
she  desired  to  be  away  from  the  curious  eyes  and  tedi- 
ous voices  of  the  passengers.  Besides,  she  was  ex- 
tremely weary  and  drooping  from  lack  of  sleep.  On 
the  previous  night  she  had  graced  the  annual  ball  and 
oyster  fry  of  the  West  Side  Wholesale  Fish  Dealers' 
Assistants'  Social  Club  No.  2,  thus  reducing  her  usual 
time  of  sleep  to  only  three  hours. 

And  the  day  had  been  uncommonly  troublous. 
Customers  had  been  inordinately  trying;  the  buyer 
in  her  department  had  scolded  her  roundly  for  letting 
her  stock  run  down ;  her  best  friend,  Mamie  Tuthill, 
had  snubbed  her  by  going  to  lunch  with  that  Dockery 
girl. 

The  Girl  from  Sieber-Mason's  was  in  that  relaxed, 
softened  mood  that  often  comes  to  the  independent 
feminine  wage-earner.  It  is  a  mood  most  propitious 
for  the  man  who  would  woo  her.  Then  she  has 
yearnings  to  be  set  in  some  home  and  heart ;  to  be 
comforted,  and  to  hide  behind  some  strong  arm  and 
rest,  rest.  But  Miss  Claribel  Colby  was  also  very 
sleepy. 

There  came  to  her  side  a  strong  man,  browned  and 
dressed  carelessly  in  the  best  of  clothes,  with  his  hat 
in  his  hand. 


236  The  Trimmed  Lamp 


a 


Lady,"  said  the  Man  from  Nome,  respectfully, 
"  excuse  me  for  speaking  to  you,  but  I  —  I  —  I  saw 
you  on  the  street,  and  —  and  — " 

"  Oh,  gee ! "  remarked  the  Girl  from  Sieber- 
Mason's,  glancing  up  with  the  most  capable  coolness. 
"  Ain't  there  any  way  to  ever  get  rid  of  you  mashers  ? 
I've  tried  everything  from  eating  onions  to  using  hat- 
pins.    Be  on  your  way,  Freddie." 

"  I'm  not  one  of  that  kind,  lady,"  said  the  Man 
from  Nome  — "  honest,  I'm  not.  As  I  say,  I  saw  you 
on  the  street,  and  I  wanted  to  know  you  so  bad  I 
couldn't  help  followin'  after  you.  I  was  afraid  I 
wouldn't  ever  see  you  again  in  this  big  town  unless 
I  spoke ;  and  that's  why  I  done  so." 

Miss  Colby  looked  once  shrewdly  at  him  in  the  dim 
light  on  the  ferry-boat.  No ;  he  did  not  have  the  per- 
fidious smirk  or  the  brazen  swagger  of  the  lady-killer. 
Sincerity  and  modesty  shone  through  his  boreal  tan. 
It  seemed  to  her  that  it  might  be  good  to  hear  a  little 
of  what  he  had  to  say. 

"  You  may  sit  down,"  she  said,  laying  her 
hand  over  a  yawn  with  ostentatious  politeness; 
"  and  —  mind  —  don't  get  fresh  or  I'll  call  the  stew- 
ard." 

The  Man  from  Nome  sat  by  her  side.  He  admired 
her  greatly.  He  more  than  admired  her.  She  had 
exactly  the  looks  he  had  tried  so  long  in  vain  to  find 
in  a  woman.     Could  she  ever  come  to  like  him  ?     Well, 


The  Ferry  of  Unfulfilment  237 

that  was  to  be  seen.  He  must  do  all  in  his  power  to 
stake  his  claim,  anyhow. 

"  My  name's  Blayden,"  said  he  — "  Henry  Blay- 
den." ' 

"  Are  you  real  sure  it  ain't  Jones  ?  "  asked  the  girl, 
leaning  toward  him,  with  delicious,  knowing  raillery. 

"  I'm  down  from  Nome,"  he  went  on  with  anxious 
seriousness.  "  I  scraped  together  a  pretty  good  lot 
of  dust  up  there,  and  brought  it  down  with  me." 

"  Oh,  say !  "  she  rippled,  pursuing  persiflage  with 
engaging  lightness,  "  then  you  must  be  on  the  White 
Wings  force.     I  thought  I'd  seen  you  somewhere." 

"  You  didn't  see  me  on  the  street  to-day  when  I  saw 
you." 

"  I  never  look  at  fellows  on  the  street." 

"Well,  I  looked  at  you;  and  I  never  looked  at 
anything  before  that  I  thought  was  half  as  pretty." 

"  Shall  I  keep  the  change  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  reckon  so.  I  reckon  you  could  keep  any- 
thing I've  got.  I  reckon  I'm  what  you  would  call  a 
rough  man,  but  I  could  be  awful  good  to  anybody  I 
liked.  I've  had  a  rough  time  of  it  up  yonder,  but  I 
beat  the  game.  Nearly  5,000  ounces  of  dust  was 
what  I  cleaned  up  while  I  was  there." 

"  Goodness !  "  exclaimed  Miss  Colby,  obligingly 
sympathetic.  "  It  must  be  an  awful  dirty  place, 
wherever  it  is." 

And  then  her  eyes  closed.     The  voice  of  the  Man 


238  The  Trimmed  Lamp 

from  Nome  had  a  monotony  in  its  very  earnestness. 
Besides,  what  dull  talk  was  this  of  brooms  and  sweep- 
ing and  dust?  She  leaned  her  head  back  against  the 
wall. 

"  Miss,"  said  the  Man  from  Nome,  with  deeper 
earnestness  and  monotony,  "  I  never  saw  anybody  I 
liked  as  well  as  I  do  you.  I  know  you  can't  think 
that  way  of  me  right  yet;  but  can't  you  give  me  a 
chance?  Won't  you  let  me  know  you,  and  see  if  I 
can't  make  you  like  me?  " 

The  head  of  the  Girl  from  Sieber-Mason's  slid  over 
gently  and  rested  upon  his  shoulder.  Sweet  sleep  had 
won  her,  and  she  was  dreaming  rapturously  of  the 
Wholesale  Fish  Dealers'  Assistants'  ball. 

The  gentleman  from  Nome  kept  his  arms  to  him- 
self. He  did  not  suspect  sleep,  and  yet  he  was  too 
wise  to  attribute  the  movement  to  surrender.  He  was 
greatly  and  blissfully  thrilled,  but  he  ended  by  re- 
garding the  head  upon  his  shoulder  as  an  encouraging 
preliminary,  merely  advanced  as  a  harbinger  of  his 
success,  and  not  to  be  taken  advantage  of. 

One  small  speck  of  alloy  discounted  the  gold  of  his 
satisfaction.  Had  he  spoken  too  freely  of  his  wealth  ? 
He  wanted  to  be  liked  for  himself. 

"  I  want  to  say,  Miss,"  he  said,  "  that  you  can 
count  on  me.  They  know  me  in  the  Klondike  from 
Juneau  to  Circle  City  and  down  the  whole  length  of 
the  Yukon.     Many  a  night  I've  laid  in  the  snow  up 


The  Ferry  of  Unfulfilment  289 

there  where  I  worked  like  a  slave  for  three  years,  and 
wondered  if  I'd  ever  have  anybody  to  like  me.  I 
didn't  want  all  that  dust  just  myself.  I  thought 
I'd  meet  just  the  right  one  some  time,  and  I  done  it 
to-day.  Money's  a  mighty  good  thing  to  have,  but 
to  have  the  love  of  the  one  you  like  best  is  better  still. 
If  you  was  ever  to  marry  a  man,  Miss,  which  would 
you  rather  he'd  have  ?  " 

"  Cash !  " 

The  word  came  sharply  and  loudly  from  Miss  Col- 
by's lips,  giving  evidence  that  in  her  dreams  she  was 
now  behind  her  counter  in  the  great  department  store 
of  Sieber-Mason. 

Her  head  suddenly  bobbed  over  sideways.  She 
awoke,  sat  straight,  and  rubbed  her  eyes.  The  Man 
from  Nome  was  gone. 

"  Gee !  I  believe  I've  been  asleep,"  said  Miss  Colby. 
"  Wonder  what  became  of  the  White  Wings !  " 


THE  TALE  OF  A  TAINTED  TENNER 

MONEY  talks.  But  you  may  think  that  the  con- 
versation of  a  little  old  ten-dollar  bill  in  New  York 
would  be  nothing  more  than  a  whisper.  Oh,  very 
well!  Pass  up  this  sotto  voce  autobiography  of  an 
X  if  you  like.  If  you  are  one  of  the  kind  that  pre- 
fers to  listen  to  John  D.'s  checkbook  roar  at  you 
through  a  megaphone  as  it  passes  by,  all  right.  But 
don't  forget  that  small  change  can  say  a  word  to  the 
point  now  and  then.  The  next  time  you  tip  your 
grocer's  clerk  a  silver  quarter  to  give  you  extra 
weight  of  his  boss's  goods  read  the  four  words  above 
the  lady's  head.     How  are  they  for  repartee? 

I  am  a  ten-dollar  Treasury  note,  series  of  1901. 
You  may  have  seen  one  in  a  friend's  hand.  On  my 
face,  in  the  centre,  is  a  picture  of  the  bison  Ameri- 
canus,  miscalled  a  buffalo  by  fifty  or  sixty  millions  of 
Americans.  The  heads  of  Capt.  Lewis  and  Capt. 
Clark  adorn  the  ends.  On  my  back  is  the  graceful 
figure  of  Liberty  or  Ceres  or  Maxine  Elliot  standing 
in  the  centre  of  the  stage  on  a  conservatory  plant. 
My  references  is  —  or  are  —  Section  3,588,  Revised 
Statutes.  Ten  cold,  hard  dollars  —  I  don't  say 
whether  silver,  gold,  lead  or  iron  —  Uncle  Sam  will 

hand  you  over  his  counter  if  you  want  to  cash  me  in. 

240 


The  Tale  of  a  Tainted  Tenner      241 

I  beg  you  will  excuse  any  conversational  breaks 
that  I  make  —  thanks,  I  knew  you  would  —  got  that 
sneaking  little  respect  and  agreeable  feeling  toward 
even  an  X,  haven't  you?  You  see,  a  tainted  bill 
doesn't  have  much  chance  to  acquire  a  correct  form 
of  expression.  I  never  knew  a  really  cultured  and 
educated  person  that  could  afford  to  hold  a  ten-spot 
any  longer  than  it  would  take  to  do  an  Arthur 
Duffy  to  the  nearest  That's  All!  sign  or  delicatessen 
store. 

For  a  six-year-old,  I've  had  a  lively  and  gorgeous 
circulation.  I  guess  I've  paid  as  many  debts  as  the 
man  who  dies.  I've  been  owned  by  a  good  many 
kinds  of  people.  But  a  little  old  ragged,  damp, 
dingy  five-dollar  silver  certificate  gave  me  a  jar  one 
day.  I  was  next  to  it  in  the  fat  and  bad-smelling 
purse  of  a  butcher. 

"  Hey,  you  Sitting  Bull,"  says  I,  "  don't  scrouge 
so.  Anyhow,  don't  you  think  it's  about  time  you 
went  in  on  a  customs  payment  and  got  reissued? 
For  a  series  of  1899  you're  a  sight." 

"  Oh,  don't  get  crackly  just  because  you're  a  Buf- 
falo bill,"  says  the  fiver.  "  You'd  be  limp,  too,  if 
you'd  been  stuffed  down  in  a  thick  cotton-and-lisle- 
thread  under  an  elastic  all  day,  and  the  thermometer 
not  a  degree  under  85  in  the  store." 

"  I  never  heard  of  a  pocketbook  like  that,"  says  I. 
"  Who  carried  you?  " 


242  The  Trimmed  Lamp 

"  A  shopgirl,"  says  the  five-spot. 

"What's  that?"  I  had  to  ask. 

"  You'll  never  know  till  their  millennium  comes," 
says  the  fiver. 

Just  then  a  two-dollar  bill  behind  me  with  a  George 
Washington  head,  spoke  up  to  the  fiver : 

"  Aw,  cut  out  yer  kicks.  Ain't  lisle  thread  good 
enough  for  yer?  If  you  was  under  all  cotton  like 
I've  been  to-day,  and  choked  up  with  factory  dust  till 
the  lady  with  the  cornucopia  on  me  sneezed  half  a 
dozen  times,  you'd  have  some  reason  to  complain." 

That  was  the  next  day  after  I  arrived  in  New  York. 
I  came  in  a  $500  package  of  tens  to  a  Brooklyn  bank 
from  one  of  its  Pennsylvania  correspondents  —  and  I 
haven't  made  the  acquaintance  of  any  of  the  five  and 
two  spot's  friends'  pocketbooks  yet.  Silk  for  mine, 
every  time. 

I  was  lucky  money.  I  kept  on  the  move.  Some- 
times I  changed  hands  twenty  times  a  day.  I  saw 
the  inside  of  every  business ;  I  fought  for  my  owner's 
every  pleasure.  It  seemed  that  on  Saturday  nights  I 
never  missed  being  slapped  down  on  a  bar.  Tens 
were  always  slapped  down,  while  ones  and  twos  were 
slid  over  to  the  bartenders  folded.  I  got  in  the  habit 
of  looking  for  mine,  and  I  managed  to  soak  in  a  little 
straight  or  some  spilled  Martini  or  Manhattan  when- 
ever I  could.  Once  I  got  tied  up  in  a  great  greasy 
roll  of  bills  in  a  pushcart  peddler's  jeans.     I  thought 


The  Tale  of  a  Tainted  Tenner      243 

I  never  would  get  in  circulation  again,  for  the  future 
department  store  owner  lived  on  eight  cents'  worth 
of  dog  meat  and  onions  a  day.  But  this  peddler  got 
into  trouble  one  day  on  account  of  having  his  cart 
too  near  a  crossing,  and  I  was  rescued.  I  always  will 
feel  grateful  to  the  cop  that  got  me.  He  changed 
me  at  a  cigar  store  near  the  Bowery  that  was  running 
a  crap  game  in  the  back  room.  So  it  was  the  Captain 
of  the  precinct,  after  all,  that  did  me  the  best  turn, 
when  he  got  his.  He  blew  me  for  wine  the  next  even- 
ing in  a  Broadway  restaurant;  and  I  really  felt  as 
glad  to  get  back  again  as  an  Astor  does  when  he  sees 
the  lights  of  Charing  Cross. 

A  tainted  ten  certainly  does  get  action  on  Broad- 
way. I  was  alimony  once,  and  got  folded  in  a  little 
dogskin  purse  among  a  lot  of  dimes.  They  were 
bragging  about  the  busy  times  there  were  in  Ossin- 
ing  whenever  three  girls  got  hold  of  one  of  them  dur- 
ing the  ice  cream  season.  But  it's  Slow  Moving  Ve- 
hicles Keep  to  the  Right  for  the  little  Bok  tips  when 
you  think  of  the  way  we  bison  plasters  refuse  to  stick 
to  anything  during  the  rush  lobster  hour. 

The  first  I  ever  heard  of  tainted  money  was  one 
night  when  a  good  thing  with  a  Van  to  his  name  threw 
me  over  with  some  other  bills  to  buy  a  stack  of  blues. 

About  midnight  a  big,  easy-going  man  with  a  fat 
face  like  a  monk's  and  the  eye  of  a  janitor  with  his 
wages  raised  took  me  and  a  lot  of  other  notes  and 


244  The  Trimmed  Lamp 

rolled  us  into  what  is  termed  a  "  wad  "  among  the 
money  tainters. 

"  Ticket  me  for  five  hundred,"  said  he  to  the 
banker,  "  and  look  out  for  everything,  Charlie.  I'm 
going  out  for  a  stroll  in  the  glen  before  the  moonlight 
fades  from  the  brow  of  the  cliff.  If  anybody  finds 
the  roof  in  their  way  there's  $60,000  wrapped  in  a 
comic  supplement  in  the  upper  left-hand  corner  of  the 
safe.  Be  bold ;  everywhere  be  bold,  but  be  not  bowled 
over.     'Night." 

I  found  myself  between  two  $20  gold  certificates. 
One  of  'em  says  to  me: 

"  Well,  old  shorthorn,  you're  in  luck  to-night. 
You'll  see  something  of  life.  Old  Jack's  going  to 
make  the  Tenderloin  look  like  a  hamburg  steak." 

"  Explain,"  says  I.  "  I'm  used  to  joints,  but  I 
don't  care  for  filet  mignon  with  the  kind  of  sauce  you 
serve." 

"  'Xcuse  me,"  said  the  twenty.  "  Old  Jack  is  the 
proprietor  of  this  gambling  house.  He's  going  on  a 
whiz  to-night  because  he  offered  $50,000  to  a  church 
and  it  refused  to  accept  it  because  they  said  his  money 
was  tainted." 

"  What  is  a  church  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  Oh,  I  forgot,"  says  the  twenty,  "  that  I  was  talk- 
ing to  a  tenner.  Of  course  you  don't  know.  You're 
too  much  to  put  into  the  contribution  basket,  and  not 
enough  to  buy  anything  at  a  bazaar.     A  church  is  — 


The  Tale  of  a  Tainted  Tenner      245 

a  large  building  in  which  penwipers  and  tidies  are 
sold  at  $20  each." 

I  don't  care  much  about  chinning  with  gold  cer- 
tificates. There's  a  streak  of  yellow  in  'em.  All  is 
not  gold  that's  quitters. 

Old  Jack  certainly  was  a  gilt-edged  sport.  When 
it  came  his  time  to  loosen  up  he  never  referred  the 
waiter  to  an  actuary. 

By  and  by  it  got  around  that  he  was  smiting  the 
rock  in  the  wilderness ;  and  all  along  Broadway  things 
with  cold  noses  and  hot  gullets  fell  in  on  our  trail. 
The  third  Jungle  Book  was  there  waiting  for  some- 
body to  put  covers  on  it.  Old  Jack's  money  may 
have  had  a  taint  to  it,  but  all  the  same  he  had  orders 
for  his  Camembert  piling  up  on  him  every  minute. 
First  his  friends  rallied  round  him;  and  then  the  fel- 
lows that  his  friends  knew  by  sight ;  and  then  a  few 
of  his  enemies  buried  the  hatchet ;  and  finally  he  was 
buying  souvenirs  for  so  many  Neapolitan  fisher  maid- 
ens and  butterfly  octettes  that  the  head  waiters  were 
'phoning  all  over  town  for  Julian  Mitchell  to  please 
come  around  and  get  them  into  some  kind  of  order. 

At  last  we  floated  into  an  uptown  cafe  that  I  knew 
by  heart.  When  the  hod-carriers'  union  in  jackets 
and  aprons  saw  us  coming  the  chief  goal  kicker 
called  out :  "  Six  —  eleven  —  forty-two  —  nineteen 
—  twelve  "  to  his  men,  and  they  put  on  nose  guards 
till  it  was  clear  whether  we  meant  Port  Arthur  or 


246  The  Trimmed  Lamp 

Portsmouth.  But  Old  Jack  wasn't  working  for  the 
furniture  and  glass  factories  that  night.  He  sat 
down  quiet  and  sang  "  Ramble "  in  a  half-hearted 
way.  His  feelings  had  been  hurt,  so  the  twenty  told 
me,  because  his  offer  to  the  church  had  been  refused. 

But  the  wassail  went  on;  and  Brady  himself 
couldn't  have  hammered  the  thirst  mob  into  a  better 
imitation  of  the  real  penchant  for  the  stuff  that  you 
screw  out  of  a  bottle  with  a  napkin. 

Old  Jack  paid  the  twenty  above  me  for  a  round, 
leaving  me  on  the  outside  of  his  roll.  He  laid  the  roll 
on  the  table  and  sent  for  the  proprietor. 

"  Mike,"  says  he,  "  here's  money  that  the  good  peo- 
ple have  refused.  Will  it  buy  of  your  wares  in  the 
name  of  the  devil?     They  say  it's  tainted." 

"  I  will,"  says  Mike,  "  and  I'll  put  it  in  the  drawer 
next  to  the  bills  that  was  paid  to  the  parson's  daugh- 
ter for  kisses  at  the  church  fair  to  build  a  new  parson- 
age for  the  parson's  daughter  to  live  in." 

At  1  o'clock  when  the  hod-carriers  were  making 
ready  to  close  up  the  front  and  keep  the  inside  open, 
a  woman  slips  in  the  door  of  che  restaurant  and  comes 
up  to  Old  Jack's  table.  You've  seen  the  kind  —  black 
shawl,  creepy  hair,  ragged  skirt,  white  face,  eyes  a 
cross  between  Gabriel's  and  a  sick  kitten's  —  the  kind 
of  woman  that's  always  on  the  lookout  for  an  automo- 
bile or  the  mendicancy  squad  —  and  she  stands  there 
without  a  word  and  looks  at  the  money. 


The  Tale  of  a  Tainted  Tenner      247 

Old  Jack  gets  up,  peels  me  off  the  roll  and  hands 
me  to  her  with  a  bow. 

"  Madam,"  says  he,  just  like  actors  I've  heard, 
"  here  is  a  tainted  bill.  I  am  a  gambler.  This  bill 
came  to  me  to-night  from  a  gentleman's  son.  Where 
he  got  it  I  do  not  know.  If  you  will  do  me  the  favor 
to  accept  it,  it  is  yours." 

The  woman  took  me  with  a  trembling  hand. 

"  Sir,"  said  she,  "  I  counted  thousands  of  this  issue 
of  bills  into  packages  when  they  were  virgin  from 
the  presses.  I  was  a  clerk  in  the  Treasury  Depart- 
ment. There  was  an  official  to  whom  I  owed  my  po- 
sition. You  say  they  are  tainted  now.  If  you  only 
knew  —  but  I  won't  say  any  more.  Thank  you  with 
all  my  heart,  sir  —  thank  you  —  thank  you." 

Where  do  you  suppose  that  woman  carried  me  al- 
most at  a  run  ?  To  a  bakery.  Away  from  Old  Jack 
and  a  sizzling  good  time  to  a  bakery.  And  I  get 
changed,  and  she  does  a  Sheridan-twenty-miles-away 
with  a  dozen  rolls  and  a  section  of  jelly  cake  as  big  as 
a  turbine  water-wheel.  Of  course  I  lost  sight  of  her 
then,  for  I  was  snowed  up  in  the  bakery,  wondering 
whether  I'd  get  changed  at  the  drug  store  the 
next  day  in  an  alum  deal  or  paid  over  to  the  cement 
works. 

A  week  afterward  I  butted  up  against  one  of  the 
one-dollar  bills  the  baker  had  given  the  woman  for 
change. 


248  The  Trimmed  Lamp 

"  Hallo,  E35039669,"  says  I,  "  weren't  you  in  the 
change  for  me  in  a  bakery  last  Saturday  night  ?  '; 

"  Yep,"  says  the  solitaire  in  his  free  and  easy  style. 

"  How  did  the  deal  turn  out  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  She  blew  E 17051 431  for  milk  and  round  steak," 
says  the  one-spot.  "  She  kept  me  till  the  rent  man 
came.  It  was  a  bum  room  with  a  sick  kid  in  it.  But 
you  ought  to  have  seen  him  go  for  the  bread  and  tinc- 
ture of  formaldehyde.  Half-starved,  I  guess.  Then 
she  prayed  some.  Don't  get  stuck  up,  tenner.  We 
one-spots  hear  ten  prayers,  where  you  hear  one.  She 
said  something  about  '  who  giveth  to  the  poor.'  Oh, 
let's  cut  out  the  slum  talk.  I'm  certainly  tired  of  the 
company  that  keeps  me.  I  wish  I  was  big  enough  to 
move  in  society  with  you  tainted  bills." 

"  Shut  up,"  says  I ;  "  there's  no  such  thing.  I 
know  the  rest  of  it.  There's  a  *  lendeth  to  the  Lord  ' 
somewhere  in  it.  Now  look  on  my  back  and  read 
what  you  see  there." 

"  This  note  is  a  legal  tender  at  its  face  value  for 
all  debts  public  and  private." 

"  This  talk  about  tainted  money  makes  me  tired," 
says  I. 


ELSIE  IN  NEW  YORK 

No,  bumptious  reader,  this  story  is  not  a  continua- 
tion of  the  Elsie  series.  But  if  your  Elsie  had  lived 
over  here  in  our  big  city  there  might  have  been  a 
chapter  in  her  books  not  very  different  from  this. 

Especially  for  the  vagrant  feet  of  youth  are  the 
roads  of  Manhattan  beset  "  with  pitfall  and  with  gin." 
But  the  civic  guardians  of  the  young  have  made  them- 
selves acquainted  with  the  snares  of  the  wicked,  and 
most  of  the  dangerous  paths  are  patrolled  by  their 
agents,  who  seek  to  turn  straying  ones  away  from  the 
peril  that  menaces  them.  And  this  will  tell  you  how 
they  guided  my  Elsie  safely  through  all  peril  to  the 
goal  that  she  was  seeking. 

Elsie's  father  had  been  a  cutter  for  Fox  &  Otter, 

cloaks  and  furs,  on  lower  Broadway.     He  was  an  old 

man,  with  a  slow  and  limping  gait,  so  a  pot-hunter 

of  a  newly  licensed  chauffeur  ran  him  down  one  day 

when  livelier  game  was  scarce.     They  took  the  old 

man  home,  where  he  lay  on  his  bed  for  a  year  and 

then  died,  leaving  $2.50  in  cash  and  a  letter  from  Mr. 

Otter  offering  to  do  anything  he  could  to  help  his 

faithful  old  employee.     The  old  cutter  regarded  this 

letter  as  a  valuable  legacy  to  his  daughter,  and  he 

249 


250  The  Trimmed  Lamp 

put  it  into  her  hands  with  pride  as  the  shears  of  the 
dread  Cleaner  and  Repairer  snipped  off  his  thread  of 
life. 

That  was  the  landlord's  cue;  and  forth  he  came 
and  did  his  part  in  the  great  eviction  scene.  There 
was  no  snowstorm  ready  for  Elsie  to  steal  out  into, 
drawing  her  little  red  woollen  shawl  about  her  shoul- 
ders, but  she  went  out,  regardless  of  the  unities.  And 
as  for  the  red  shawl  —  back  to  Blaney  with  it !  El- 
sie's fall  tan  coat  was  cheap,  but  it  had  the  style  and 
fit  of  the  best  at  Fox  &  Otter's.  And  her  lucky  stars 
had  given  her  good  looks,  and  eyes  as  blue  and  inno- 
cent as  the  new  shade  of  note  paper,  and  she  had  $1 
left  of  the  $2.50.  And  the  letter  from  Mr.  Otter. 
Keep  your  eye  on  the  letter  from  Mr.  Otter.  That  is 
the  clue.  I  desire  that  everything  be  made  plain  as 
we  go.  Detective  stories  are  so  plentiful  now  that 
they  do  not  sell. 

And  so  we  find  Elsie,  thus  equipped,  starting  out 
in  the  world  to  seek  her  fortune.  One  trouble  about 
the  letter  from  Mr.  Otter  was  that  it  did  not  bear  the 
new  address  of  the  firm,  which  had  moved  about  a 
month  before.  But  Elsie  thought  she  could  find  it. 
She  had  heard  that  policemen,  when  politely  ad- 
dressed, or  thumbscrewed  by  an  investigation  commit- 
tee, will  give  up  information  and  addresses.  So  she 
boarded  a  downtown  car  at  One  Hundred  and  Sev- 
enty-seventh street  and  rode  south  to  Forty-second, 


Elsie  in  New  York  251 

which  she  thought  must  surely  be  the  end  of  the  is- 
land. There  she  stood  against  the  wall  undecided, 
for  the  city's  roar  and  dash  was  new  to  her.  Up 
where  she  had  lived  was  rural  New  York,  so  far  out 
that  the  milkmen  awaken  you  in  the  morning  by  the 
squeaking  of  pumps  instead  of  the  rattling  of  cans. 

A  kind-faced,  sunburned  young  man  in  a  soft- 
brimmed  hat  went  past  Elsie  into  the  Grand  Central 
Depot.  That  was  Hank  Ross,  of  the  Sunflower 
Ranch,  in  Idaho,  on  his  way  home  from  a  visit  to 
the  East.  Hank's  heart  was  heavy,  for  the  Sunflower 
Ranch  was  a  lonesome  place,  lacking  the  pres- 
ence of  a  woman.  He  had  hoped  to  find  one  during 
his  visit  who  would  congenially  share  his  prosperity 
and  home,  but  the  girls  of  Gotham  had  not  pleased 
his  fancy.  But,  as  he  passed  in,  he  noted,  with  a 
jumping  of  his  pulses,  the  sweet,  ingenuous  face  of 
Elsie  and  her  pose  of  doubt  and  loneliness.  With 
true  and  honest  Western  impulse  he  said  to  himself 
that  here  was  his  mate.  He  could  love  her,  he  knew ; 
and  he  would  surround  her  with  so  much  comfort,  and 
cherish  her  so  carefully  that  she  would  be  happy,  and 
make  two  sunflowers  grow  on  the  ranch  where  there 
grew  but  one  before. 

Hank  turned  and  went  back  to  her.  Backed  by  his 
never  before  questioned  honesty  of  purpose,  he  ap- 
proached the  girl  and  removed  his  soft-brimmed  hat. 
Elsie  had  but  time  to  sum  up  his  handsome  frank  face 


252  The  Trimmed  Lamp 

with  one  shy  look  of  modest  admiration  when  a  burly 
cop  hurled  himself  upon  the  ranchman,  seized  him  by 
the  collar  and  backed  him  against  the  wall.  Two 
blocks  away  a  burglar  was  coming  out  of  an  apart- 
ment-house with  a  bag  of  silverware  on  his  shoulder ; 
but  that  is  neither  here  nor  there. 

"  Carry  on  yez  mashin'  tricks  right  before  me  eyes, 
will  yez?  "  shouted  the  cop.  "  I'll  teach  yez  to  speak 
to  ladies  on  me  beat  that  ye're  not  acquainted  with. 
Come  along." 

Elsie  turned  away  with  a  sigh  as  the  ranchman 
was  dragged  away.  She  had  liked  the  effect  of  his 
light  blue  eyes  against  his  tanned  complexion.  She 
walked  southward,  thinking  herself  already  in  the  dis- 
trict where  her  father  used  to  work,  and  hoping  to 
find  some  one  who  could  direct  her  to  the  firm  of  Fox 
&  Otter. 

But  did  she  want  to  find  Mr.  Otter?  She  had  in- 
herited much  of  the  old  cutter's  independence.  How 
much  better  it  would  be  if  she  could  find  work  and 
support  herself  without  calling  on  him  for  aid ! 

Elsie  saw  a  sign  "  Employment  Agency  "  and  went 
in.  Many  girls  were  sitting  against  the  wall  in 
chairs.  Several  well-dressed  ladies  were  looking  them 
over.  One  white-haired,  kind-faced  old  lady  in  rust- 
ling black  silk  hurried  up  to  Elsie. 

"  My  dear,"  she  said  in  a  sweet,  gentle  voice,  "  are 
you  looking  for  a  position?     I  like  your  face  and  ap- 


Elsie  in  New  York  253 

pearance  so  much.  I  want  a  young  woman  who  will 
be  half  maid  and  half  companion  to  me.  You  will 
have  a  good  home  and  I  will  pay  you  $30  a  month." 

Before  Elsie  could  stammer  forth  her  gratified  ac- 
ceptance, a  young  woman  with  gold  glasses  on  her 
bony  nose  and  her  hands  in  her  jacket  pockets  seized 
her  arm  and  drew  her  aside. 

"  I  am  Miss  Ticklebaum,"  said  she,  "  of  the  Asso- 
ciation for  the  Prevention  of  Jobs  Being  Put  Up  on 
Working  Girls  Looking  for  Jobs.  We  prevented 
forty-seven  girls  from  securing  positions  last  week. 
I  am  here  to  protect  you.  Beware  of  any  one  who 
offers  you  a  job.  How  do  you  know  that  this  woman 
does  not  want  to  make  you  work  as  a  breaker-boy  in 
a  coal  mine  or  murder  you  to  get  your  teeth?  If 
you  accept  work  of  any  kind  without  permission  of 
our  association  you  will  be  arrested  by  one  of  our 
agents." 

"  But  what  am  I  to  do  ?  "  asked  Elsie.  "  I  have  no 
home  or  money.  I  must  do  something.  Why  am  I 
not  allowed  to  accept  this  kind  lady's  offer?  " 

"  I  do  not  know,"  said  Miss  Ticklebaum.  "  That 
is  the  affair  of  our  Committee  on  the  Abolishment  of 
Employers.  It  is  my  duty  simply  to  see  that  you  do 
not  get  work.  You  will  give  me  your  name  and  ad- 
dress and  report  to  our  secretary  every  Thursday. 
We  have  600  girls  on  the  waiting  list  who  will  in  time 
be  allowed  to  accept  positions  as  vacancies  occur  on 


254  The  Trimmed  Lamp 

our  roll  of  Qualified  Employers,  which  now  comprises 
twenty-seven  names.  There  is  prayer,  music  and 
lemonade  in  our  chapel  the  third  Sunday  of  every 
month." 

Elsie  hurried  away  after  thanking  Miss  Ticklebaum 
for  her  timely  warning  and  advice.  After  all,  it 
seemed  that  she  must  try  to  find  Mr.  Otter. 

But  after  walking  a  few  blocks  she  saw  a  sign, 
"  Cashier  wanted,"  in  the  window  of  a  confectionery 
store.  In  she  went  and  applied  for  the  place,  after 
casting  a  quick  glance  over  her  shoulder  to  assure 
herself  that  the  job-preventer  was  not  on  her  trail. 

The  proprietor  of  the  confectionery  was  a  benevo- 
lent old  man  with  a  peppermint  flavor,  who  decided, 
after  questioning  Elsie  pretty  closely,  that  she  was  the 
very  girl  he  wanted.  Her  services  were  needed  at 
once,  so  Elsie,  with  a  thankful  heart,  drew  off  her  tan 
coat  and  prepared  to  mount  the  cashier's  stool. 

But  before  she  could  do  so  a  gaunt  lady  wearing 
steel  spectacles  and  black  mittens  stood  before  her, 
with  a  long  finger  pointing,  and  exclaimed :  "  Young 
woman,  hesitate !  " 

Elsie  hesitated. 

Do  you  know,"  said  the  black-and-steel  lady, 
that  in  accepting  this  position  you  may  this 
day  cause  the  loss  of  a  hundred  lives  in  agonizing 
physical  torture  and  the  sending  as  many  souls  to 
perdition  ?  " 


M 

it 


Elsie  in  New  York  255 

"  Why,  no,"  said  Elsie,  in  frightened  tones. 
"How  could  I  do  that?" 

"  Rum,"  said  the  lady  — "  the  demon  rum.  Do 
you  know  why  so  many  lives  are  lost  when  a  theatre 
catches  fire?  Brandy  balls.  The  demon  rum  lurking 
in  brandy  balls.  Our  society  women  while  in  thea- 
tres sit  grossly  intoxicated  from  eating  these  candies 
filled  with  brandy.  When  the  fire  fiend  sweeps  down 
upon  them  they  are  unable  to  escape.  The  candy 
stores  are  the  devil's  distilleries.  If  you  assist  in  the 
distribution  of  these  insidious  confections  you  assist  in 
the  destruction  of  the  bodies  and  souls  of  your  fellow- 
beings,  and  in  the  filling  of  our  jails,  asylums  and 
almshouses.  Think,  girl,  ere  you  touch  the  money 
for  which  brandy  balls  are  sold. 

"  Dear  me,"  said  Elsie,  bewildered.  "  I  didn't 
know  there  was  rum  in  brandy  balls.  But  I  must  live 
by  some  means.     What  shall  I  do?  " 

"  Decline  the  position,"  said  the  lady,  "  and  come 
with  me.     I  will  tell  you  what  to  do." 

After  Elsie  had  told  the  confectioner  that  she  had 
changed  her  mind  about  the  cashiership  she  put  on 
her  coat  and  followed  the  lady  to  the  sidewalk,  where 
awaited  an  elegant  victoria. 

"  Seek  some  other  work,"  said  the  black-and-steel 
lady,  "  and  assist  in  crushing  the  hydra-headed  demon 
rum."  And  she  got  into  the  victoria  and  drove  away. 

"  I  guess  that  puts  it  up  to  Mr.  Otter  again,"  said 


256  The  Trimmed  Lamp 

Elsie,  ruefully,  turning  down  the  street.  "  And  I'm 
sorry,  too,  for  I'd  much  rather  make  my  way  without 
help." 

Near  Fourteenth  street  Elsie  saw  a  placard  tacked 
on  the  side  of  a  doorway  that  read :  "  Fifty  girls,  neat 
sewers,  wanted  immediately  on  theatrical  costumes. 
Good  pay." 

She  was  about  to  enter,  when  a  solemn  man,  dressed 
all  in  black,  laid  his  hand  on  her  arm. 

"  My  dear  girl,"  he  said,  "  I  entreat  you  not  to  en- 
ter that  dressing-room  of  the  devil." 

"  Goodness  me !  "  exclaimed  Elsie,  with  some  impa- 
tience. "  The  devil  seems  to  have  a  cinch  on  all  the 
business  in  New  York.  What's  wrong  about  the 
place  ?  " 

"  It  is  here,"  said  the  solemn  man,  "  that  the  re- 
galia of  Satan  —  in  other  words,  the  costumes  worn 
on  the  stage  —  are  manufactured.  The  stage  is  the 
road  to  ruin  and  destruction.  Would  you  imperil 
your  soul  by  lending  the  work  of  your  hands  to  its 
support  ?  Do  you  know,  my  dear  girl,  what  the  thea- 
tre leads  to  ?  Do  you  know  where  actors  and  actresses 
go  after  the  curtain  of  the  playhouse  has  fallen  upon 
them  for  the  last  time  ?  " 

"  Sure,"  said  Elsie.  "  Into  vaudeville.  But  do 
you  think  it  would  be  wicked  for  me  to  make  a  little 
money  to  live  on  by  sewing?  I  must  get  something 
to  do  pretty  soon." 


Elsie  in  New  York  257 

"  The  flesh-pots  of  Egypt,"  exclaimed  the  rever- 
end gentleman,  uplifting  his  hands.  "  I  beseech  you, 
my  child,  to  turn  away  from  this  place  of  sin  and  in- 
iquity." 

"  But  what  will  I  do  for  a  living  ?  "  asked  Elsie. 
"  I  don't  care  to  sew  for  this  musical  comedy,  if  it's 
as  rank  as  you  say  it  is;  but  I've  got  to  have  a  job." 

"  The  Lord  will  provide,"  said  the  solemn  man. 
"  There  is  a  free  Bible  class  every  Sunday  afternoon 
in  the  basement  of  the  cigar  store  next  to  the  church. 
Peace  be  with  you.     Amen.     Farewell." 

Elsie  went  on  her  way.  She  was  soon  in  the  down- 
town district  where  factories  abound.  On  a  large 
brick  building  was  a  gilt  sign,  "  Posey  &  Trimmer, 
Artificial  Flowers."  Below  it  was  hung  a  newly 
stretched  canvas  bearing  the  words,  "  Five  hundred 
girls  wanted  to  learn  trade.  Good  wages  from  the 
start.     Apply  one  flight  up." 

Elsie  started  toward  the  door,  near  which  were 
gathered  in  groups  some  twenty  or  thirty  girls.  One 
big  girl  with  a  black  straw  hat  tipped  down  over  her 
eyes  stepped  in  front  of  her. 

"  Say,  you'se,"  said  the  girl,  "  are  you'se  goin'  in 
there  after  a  job?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Elsie ;  "  I  must  have  work." 

"  Now  don't  do  it,"  said  the  girl.  "  I'm  chairman 
of  our  Scab  Committee.  There's  400  of  us  girls 
locked  out  just  because  we  demanded  50  cents  a  week 


258  The  Trimmed  Lamp 

raise  in  wages,  and  ice  water,  and  for  the  foreman  to 
shave  off  his  mustache.  You're  too  nice  a  looking 
girl  to  be  a  scab.  Wouldn't  you  please  help  us  along 
by  trying  to  find  a  job  somewhere  else,  or  would 
you'se  rather  have  your  face  pushed  in?  " 

"  I'll  try  somewhere  else,"  said  Elsie. 

She  walked  aimlessly  eastward  on  Broadway,  and 
there  her  heart  leaped  to  see  the  sign,  "  Fox  &  Ot- 
ter," stretching  entirely  across  the  front  of  a  tall 
building.  It  was  as  though  an  unseen  guide  had  led 
her  to  it  through  the  by-ways  of  her  fruitless  search 
for  work. 

She  hurried  into  the  store  and  sent  in  to  Mr.  Otter 
by  a  clerk  her  name  and  the  letter  he  had  written  her 
father.     She  was  shown  directly  into  his  private  office. 

Mr.  Otter  arose  from  his  desk  as  Elsie  entered  and 
took  both  hands  with  a  hearty  smile  of  welcome.  He 
was  a  slightly  corpulent  man  of  nearly  middle  age, 
a  little  bald,  gold  spectacled,  polite,  well  dressed, 
radiating. 

"  Well,  well,  and  so  this  is  Beatty's  little  daughter ! 
Your  father  was  one  of  our  most  efficient  and  valued 
employees.  He  left  nothing?  Well,  well.  I  hope 
we  have  not  forgotten  his  faithful  services.  I  am 
sure  there  is  a  vacancy  now  among  our  models.  Oh, 
it  is  easy  work  —  nothing  easier." 

Mr.  Otter  struck  a  bell.  'A  long-nosed  clerk  thrust 
a  portion  of  himself  inside  the  door. 


Elsie  in  New  York  259 

"  Send  Miss  Hawkins  in,"  said  Mr.  Otter.  Miss 
Hawkins  came. 

"  Miss  Hawkins,"  said  Mr.  Otter,  "  bring  for  Miss 
Beatty  to  try  on  one  of  those  Russian  sable  coats  and 
—  let's  see  —  one  of  those  latest  model  black  tulle 
hats  with  white  tips." 

Elsie  stood  before  the  full-length  mirror  with  pink 
cheeks  and  quick  breath.  Her  eyes  shone  like  faint 
stars.     She  was  beautiful.     Alas !  she  was  beautiful. 

I  wish  I  could  stop  this  story  here.  Confound  it ! 
I  will.  No ;  it's  got  to  run  it  out.  I  didn't  make  it 
up.     I'm  just  repeating  it. 

I'd  like  to  throw  bouquets  at  the  wise  cop,  and  the 
lady  who  rescues  Girls  from  Jobs,  and  the  prohibi- 
tionist who  is  trying  to  crush  brandy  balls,  and  the 
sky  pilot  who  objects  to  costumes  for  stage  people 
(there  are  others),  and  all  the  thousands  of  good  peo- 
ple who  are  at  work  protecting  young  people  from 
the  pitfalls  of  a  great  city;  and  then  wind  up  by 
pointing  out  how  they  were  the  means  of  Elsie  reach- 
ing her  father's  benefactor  and  her  kind  friend  and 
rescuer  from  poverty.  This  would  make  a  fine  Elsie 
story  of  the  old  sort.  I'd  like  to  do  this ;  but  there's 
just  a  word  or  two  to  follow. 

While  Elsie  was  admiring  herself  in  the  mirror,  Mr. 
Otter  went  to  the  telephone  booth  and  called  up  some 
number.     Don't  ask  me  what  it  was. 

"  Oscar,"  said  he,  "  I  want  you  to  reserve  the  same 


260  The  Trimmed  Lamp 

table  for  me  this  evening.  .  .  .  What?  Why, 
the  one  in  the  Moorish  room  to  the  left  of  the  shrub- 
bery. .  .  .  Yes;  two.  .  .  .  Yes,  the  usual 
brand;  and  the  '85  Johannisburger  with  the  roast. 
If  it  isn't  the  right  temperature  I'll  break  your  neck. 
.  .  .  No;  not  her  .  .  .  No,  indeed  .  .  . 
A  new  one  —  a  peacherino,  Oscar,  a  peacherino ! " 

Tired  and  tiresome  reader,  I  will  conclude,  if  you 
please,  with  a  paraphrase  of  a  few  words  that  you  will 
remember  were  written  by  him  —  by  him  of  Gad's 
Hill,  before  whom,  if  you  doff  not  your  hat,  you  shall 
stand  with  a  covered  pumpkin  —  aye,  sir,  a  pumpkin. 

Lost,  Your  Excellency.  Lost,  Associations  and  So- 
cieties. Lost,  Right  Reverends  and  Wrong  Rever- 
ends of  every  order.  Lost,  Reformers  and  Lawmak- 
ers, born  with  heavenly  compassion  in  your  hearts,  but 
with  the  reverence  of  money  in  your  souls.  And  lost 
thus  around  us  every  day. 


THE    END 


THE  COUNTRY  LIFE  PRESS 
GARDEN   CITY  N.  Y. 


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